By Marissa Bader 
For a long time, I assumed a mom always knew exactly what to say to her children in every possible situation. She could guide her children through life’s roughest waters, bearing the weight of their pain and anguish without so much as a flinch. I wasn’t sure how moms learned to do this; maybe it was instinct, or perhaps some secret course they took before having babies? But when I was a little girl, rocking my baby dolls to sleep, I prayed I’d somehow figure it out so I could be a good mom too.
But here’s the truth: I’ve been a mom for 13 years now—three-and-a-half years with one child, and the rest with three children—and I’ve finally realized moms aren’t all-knowing, unshakable boulders. We’re human. Humans who teach, nurture, support, guide, and love deeply…but who are also imperfect.
If motherhood has taught me anything (and let’s be honest, it’s taught me about a million things), it’s that none of us has this figured out. Looks can be deceiving—just ask any parent who has scrolled Instagram or TikTok late at night, feeling like a total failure. But that’s okay, because it means we’re open to growth and evolution. It means we’re always learning.
And though I always imagined it would be the other way around, I’ve come to see we learn just as much from our kids as they do from us—maybe even more.
I often think back to the terrified, first-time pregnant version of myself, devouring every book on parenting, sleep, nutrition, and childhood brain development as if memorizing them could protect my child from a life of misery and trauma. I truly believed if I could just find the manual—the ultimate guidebook to parenting—we’d all be okay.
It’s almost funny (almost) how little I trusted my intuition then. I shut it off like a leaky valve, choosing instead to absorb every expert’s varying and often conflicting opinions. I was terrified of making a single mistake. Parenting felt enormous, because it is. Lives are at stake, and the cost of screwing up feels immeasurable.
But as every parent knows, there is no manual. And even if one existed, every child is different—and so is every parent. There is no one-size-fits-all approach. If I tried to parent my second and third children (polar-opposite fraternal twins) the same way I parent my first, or even each other, we’d all be floundering.
That realization became the beginning of my own guidebook, one written not by experts, but shaped by the unique humans I get to raise.
My oldest, fiercely determined, efficient, organized, and self-motivated, has taught me to back off. From homework to packing sports bags to preparing for her Bat Mitzvah, she has always had it handled. She showed me—an over-reminding, Type-A, control-oriented planner—that she can manage things on her own, and when she can’t, she’ll ask. Lesson learned.
One of my twins reminds me so much of myself. We could easily slip into the same dynamic my mom and I shared: exceptionally close and loving, with a sprinkle of codependency woven in. Like me, she’s an empath who absorbs others’ emotions, including mine. As a child, I thought this made me caring and connected. As an adult, I recognize it as a boundary issue. She is teaching me to strengthen my own boundaries, just as I help her learn to build hers. Beautiful lessons learned.
My other twin keeps me on my toes in the very best way. She’s fun-loving, fiery, creative, fiercely loyal, and feels everything intensely. I used to think her big emotions were something she needed to control to “succeed,” but she has shown me they’re part of what makes her magnetic and extraordinary. She’s teaching me to loosen up, stay present, let go of perfection, and make space for silliness—something I’ve been working toward for all of my 46 years. More amazing lessons learned.
Yes, I’m their mom, and I hope I’m teaching them well. But I never expected how much they would teach me in return.
My greatest misunderstanding was believing I had to be perfect, that I needed to know everything about parenting before my children ever arrived. But the truth is this: no mother is perfect at the beginning, and no mother is perfect at the end. We’re simply not meant to be.
What matters is that we remain open—open to learning, to evolving, to growing alongside our children. Just as we hope they will grow alongside us. If our children are works in progress, then so are we, and that’s exactly how it’s meant to be
by Jessica McCaslin 
by Jennifer Toscano 
by Angela Sensenig 
