The Day I Became a Mother Was the Day I Started Thinking About Myself Too

There’s this idea that motherhood begins the day your child is born.

For me, it didn’t.

Motherhood began in early December 2017, the moment I found out I was pregnant with Abigail. That was the exact moment my brain rewired itself forever.

Not because I suddenly became loving or nurturing overnight. I had always been that person. I have spent my entire life giving pieces of myself away to people I love. I have always been the caretaker. The helper. The one who worries. The one who remembers birthdays and appointments and feelings and little details nobody else notices.

Loving people has never been difficult for me.

But Abigail was the first person who made me think about myself too.

Suddenly I was thinking:

Am I eating enough?

Too much?

Did I drink enough water today?

Is she okay in there?

Did she kick today?

Was that movement enough movement?

Was her heartbeat strong?

Am I walking too much?

Am I resting enough?

Am I doing this right?

For the first time in my life, taking care of my own body stopped being about me and became about someone I already loved more than myself.

And honestly? That anxiety never fully left.

I don’t think it ever does for mothers.

It just changes shape over time.

First it’s:

“Is her heartbeat okay?”

Then it becomes:

“Is she eating enough?”

“Is she making good friends?”

“Did I handle that conversation right?”

“Is she happy?”

“Is she becoming a good person?”

“Will they always know how deeply loved they are?”

Motherhood is basically agreeing to let your heart walk around outside your body forever.

And somehow… it is both the most beautiful and terrifying thing I have ever experienced.

I remember being pregnant with Abigail and feeling this overwhelming mixture of wonder and panic. I was excited. So excited. But also deeply aware that life as I knew it was ending and something entirely new was beginning.

Then she arrived, and suddenly the world became divided into two categories:

Before her.

And after her.

Everything changed color after that.

Even ordinary things became meaningful.

Grocery shopping became about snacks she would eat.

Weekend plans became about playgrounds and nap schedules.

Holidays became magical again.

Random Tuesday mornings became important because tiny voices and sticky hands were now part of my everyday life.

Then came Samuel.

My sweet, hilarious, energetic little boy who somehow manages to be both chaos and sunshine in human form.

By the time I became a mom for the second time, I had learned something important:

You can never fully prepare for motherhood because every child changes you differently.

Abigail made me a mother.

Samuel made me surrender control.

Because second children humble you quickly.

You realize schedules are suggestions.

Silence is suspicious.

And if a toddler is being “too quiet,” you should immediately investigate.

Motherhood in my house has looked like soccer Saturdays in the rain, dance recitals, library trips, zoo memberships, Happy Meals after long days, bedtime cuddles that somehow take ninety-seven years, and rushing out the door while yelling, “WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?”

It has looked like church on Sundays with everyone dressed beautifully while I internally feel one minor inconvenience away from collapse.

It has looked like trying to balance motherhood, work, bills, relationships, healing, womanhood, and identity all at the same time.

Because motherhood is beautiful, but let’s be honest:

it is also relentless.

The mental load alone deserves financial compensation.

Mothers are carrying entire invisible spreadsheets in their heads at all times.

Soccer schedules.

Doctor appointments.

Who likes what food this week.

Who suddenly hates blueberries after loving them yesterday.

Spirit week.

School emails.

Swim lessons.

Laundry.

Permission slips.

Daycare payments.

Birthday gifts.

Whether there’s enough milk in the fridge.

And somehow society still asks mothers things like:

“So what did you do today?”

Ma’am.

Everything.

I did everything.

And despite how exhausting motherhood can be, I genuinely believe it has been the greatest joy of my life.

Not because every moment is magical.

It’s not.

Sometimes motherhood is crying in your bathroom for five minutes before re-entering the living room pretending you totally have everything under control.

Sometimes motherhood is overstimulation.

Sometimes it’s loneliness.

Sometimes it’s wondering if you’re failing while your children simultaneously think you hung the moon.

But the joy?

The joy is overwhelming.

It’s hearing your child laugh from deep in their belly.

It’s tiny hands reaching for yours.

It’s hearing “Mama!” yelled from another room like you’re a celebrity.

It’s watching your kids become little people with personalities and opinions and humor.

It’s hearing Abigail say something thoughtful that makes me realize she’s growing into this emotionally intelligent, observant little girl.

It’s watching Samuel run full speed into life with excitement and love and absolutely no concern for personal safety.

It’s hearing them laugh together in the backseat while I drive.

Those moments heal parts of me I didn’t even realize were broken.

Motherhood also changed the way I see women.

Especially mothers.

Because now I notice everything.

I notice the mom cutting up food before she eats her own meal.

The mom carrying seventeen bags while nobody offers help.

The mom trying to stay patient in public while clearly overwhelmed.

The mom who looks exhausted but still showed up.

I see her now.

Because I am her.

And becoming a mother made me understand my own mother more too.

There are things you simply cannot fully understand until you become responsible for tiny humans yourself.

The worrying.

The sacrifices.

The constant emotional labor.

The invisible carrying of everyone else’s needs.

My mother loved me through seasons where she herself was probably exhausted, scared, overwhelmed, or uncertain.

Now I understand the depth of that love differently.

Motherhood softened me in some ways and strengthened me in others.

It taught me resilience.

It taught me patience.

It taught me how strong women truly are.

And no, I do not mean the performative “strong woman” thing where we pretend everything is easy.

I mean real strength.

The kind where you keep showing up even when you’re tired.

The kind where you work all day and still come home and pour love into your children.

The kind where you survive heartbreak, disappointment, financial stress, co-parenting struggles, and emotional exhaustion while still creating joy for your kids.

That kind of strength.

And if I’m being honest, one of the biggest lessons motherhood taught me is this:

Children do not need perfect mothers.

They need present ones.

They need warmth.

Safety.

Laughter.

Comfort.

Consistency.

Apologies when we get it wrong.

And love, lots and lots of love.

I know I won’t get everything right.

No mother does.

But my children will always know they were loved deeply, loudly, intentionally, and joyfully.

They will know that even during hard seasons, their mother laughed with them.

Danced with them.

Took them on adventures.

Made ordinary days special.

Showed up to soccer games.

Cheered too loudly.

Tried her best.

And honestly, I think that’s enough.

Maybe more than enough.

So this Mother’s Day, I’m celebrating all of it.

The beauty.

The chaos.

The exhaustion.

The joy.

The growth.

The noise.

The sticky floors.

The cuddles.

The soccer mornings.

The bedtime stories.

The overwhelming love that exists in motherhood every single day.

To my children:

Thank you for making me a mother.

To my mother:

Thank you for loving me first.

And to every mama reading this:

Whether you are raising babies, toddlers, teenagers, grown children, or carrying the memory of children in your heart, you matter deeply.

Your love matters.

Your presence matters.

Your effort matters.

Even on the days nobody notices.

Motherhood is not perfection.

It is devotion.

And despite all the messiness, all the worrying, all the carrying, all the endless mental tabs open in our brains…

What a privilege it is to love this deeply.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas.

May your coffee be warm, your children nap at reasonable hours, your pictures include at least one where you look good too, and may you always remember that the love you pour into your family every single day is shaping the world in ways you may never fully see.

And that is something worth celebrating.

— With love, Rochelly 💕