Letting Go of Parental Guilt—One Lesson at a Time

Behind every smiling family pic: one tired parent, 47 outtakes, light bribery, and a little magic in the rain.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a mom. Sure, being a doctor was on my list too (spoiler alert: not a doctor today, haha), but in every dream I ever had—big house, great career, kind and loving partner—being a mom was always in the picture.

I used to see people with their kids in the grocery store, walking in the park, or on the subway, and I’d just light up. I believed parents had a kind of superpower. They always seemed confident, like they knew exactly what they were doing. I saw villages—grandparents, tias, neighbors—coming together to raise children. I experienced that village myself, so I thought, I want that too! I wanted my village. I wanted that power.

Then came my dear Abigail.

I got pregnant after a few years of marriage, and let me tell you—I went all in. I joined every parenting forum, read all the mom blogs, downloaded the apps, bought the books. I was determined to do everything right.

And of course, I wasn’t doing this alone. I had a full chorus of voices—my mom, my tias, cousins, family friends—each with advice. Some welcome, some unsolicited, but all coming from a place of love. Even I had my own strong ideas about how I wanted to raise my child.

I was set on going all natural during birth. The blogs made it seem like you weren’t a “real” mom unless you felt the full experience. (Spoiler #2: this was the start of a long journey of discovering how unrealistic and damaging some of that “well-meaning” advice can be.) I was determined to breastfeed, make all her food from scratch, keep her off sugar for as long as possible (she held out until her first birthday, when she got her first taste of ice cream and cake!), no screens—none. And here’s the big one: I had to teach her Spanish. I told myself, If you don’t, you’re letting your culture go. You’re failing.

Mind you, I was working full time, being a wife and soon-to-be mom, and somehow this magical version of motherhood meant I had to be perfect in all languages, all roles, all the time.

Why? Because I was taught by amazing, strong people—my parents—who gave everything for me. And in their eyes, “doing better” meant going even harder. I inherited their resilience and their high standards.

But then Abigail’s birth cracked that idea of perfection wide open.

I had a plan: natural birth with an epidural. What I got? Emergency C-section due to preeclampsia. And I cried. I cried because I thought I’d failed before even beginning. I thought I was less of a mom because I didn’t push. The guilt started early.

And then came breastfeeding. Everyone said, “You have to breastfeed.” So I tried. But Abigail wouldn’t latch. We worked with lactation consultants, we tried everything, but it just didn’t happen. We had to supplement with formula, and eventually transition completely. I remember sobbing—feeling like my body had failed me, like I wasn’t enough.

It took a long time to realize that fed is best, and even longer to believe it.

Then came the Spanish pressure. I was the only fully bilingual parent. So I committed—Spanish only at home, and I encouraged others to do the same. But then… COVID. My job hours shot up to 70 hours a week, I was in grad school, I was exhausted. And slowly, English became the default. It was easier. My brain was tired. Screens came in, too. We watched a lot of Disney movies to survive that time, and once again, the guilt came knocking.

I felt like I was supposed to be “on” all the time. A full-time working mom, teacher, entertainer, chef, cultural ambassador. Every role, all the time.

And then, I became a single mom.

And at that point, I had to let go of the guilt—gustele a quien le guste. Because now, it wasn’t just me and one baby. It was me and two kids. It was survival mode. And through the chaos and heartbreak of divorce, I slowly started tuning out the noise.

Not all advice works for every family. Not even the good advice. And that’s okay.

What I’ve learned is this: some things work beautifully for some families. That doesn’t mean they will work for you. Spanish with Samuel? It’s barely happening. There’s no time. But is he okay? Yes. Are my kids loved, fed, warm, and safe? Yes. That’s what matters.

We make trade-offs. We have to. Parenting doesn’t come with a manual, and even if it did, your copy wouldn’t look like mine.

Some “controversial” confessions: My kids each have iPads. Not ideal, but they save my sanity on long drives. They go to bed late during the summer. They watch TV before bed. It works for us. I’m doing what I can, with love and intention—and that’s enough.

To the non-parents who judge crying babies on airplanes or toddlers having meltdowns at restaurants: we were all perfect parents before we had kids.

Parenting is messy, beautiful, exhausting, and sacred. It’s full of contradictions. It’s full of love.

So if you’re a parent carrying guilt today, I want to tell you this: let it go. If your kids are loved, safe, and growing in a home where they’re seen and valued, you’re doing amazing. And if you’re not there yet, it’s okay to grow into it.

Be gentle with yourself. Your children don’t need a perfect parent—they need you.

You are not failing. You are evolving.

And you’re not alone.

💜—Rochelly