The truth is sometimes I don't feel I was meant to be a mother

I am meeting with my new therapist. She is my age, give or take a year or two, which automatically has me wary as I wonder if she can handle the decades of baggage I’m about to dump at her feet.

I watch her eyes skim across my intake form. I know what she is reading—all the good, the bad, and the ugly bits—preparing for me to elaborate on the convoluted stories of loss, abuse, and crisis. I sigh internally, preemptively growing weary just thinking about having to delve into the narrative.

Her eyes are gentle and her smile hopeful, “I see you have kids.”

“Yes,” I respond. “Two boys, ages eight and five.” I wait for the standard response of, “Oh, what wonderful ages! And two boys, too, you must be having so much fun. ”

“And are you enjoying motherhood?” Her voice breaks the silence.

My mouth opens to give its reflexive, sugarcoated answer, but something about the question gives me pause.

I don’t think anyone has ever asked me this question before.

I could simply gloss over the deep insecurities and unspoken truths, like I always do. The saccharine-tinged reply—My boys are feral, but I love them—hangs on my tongue.

Or I could speak my truth.

Another beat passes as I weigh my options.

I feel the absolute weight of motherhood hit my chest like a wave. I watched it swell and roll toward me, but was unprepared for the full force of impact.

No. No, I am miserable. And I’m drowning.

“I don’t like it at all right now. I hate it…”

My voice breaks, and I squeak out the last few words.

My stoic expression cracks, and tears spill down my face. My body shakes as I instantly regret saying something so taboo out loud. How dare I resent my motherhood! How dare I feel ungrateful and frustrated!

Nausea seeps into my core, and I sag with defeat, angry at everyone who ever painted a carefree and perfect picture of parenthood.

It’s too hard. It’s all too hard. I’m alone, overwhelmed, and broken.

Another wave hits my chest, and I’m suffocated by the impossible expectations.

I am failing.

I’m angry too often, frustrated too easily, and yell too much.

My depression throws me into pits of perpetual darkness, and anxiety sucks the soul out of fun.

I don’t want to laugh, and I hate myself for it.

I don’t want to be needed. Don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to feign excitement over a park adventure or superheroes. I don’t want to plan another meal, clean another spill, step on one more damn LEGO, patch up a cut, or cast sympathy toward an accidental brotherly wrestling injury.

I’m simply too tired. Too exhausted to do anything but sit and breathe. Defeated.

I want to disappear from my chaotic reality. Simply, hide in a corner of quiet. I think there was a mistake when God made me. I am not made to be a mother.

“Why can’t I enjoy my kids? I just want to enjoy my kids,” I quietly plead.

She watches the anxiety and agony flash across my face. “The fact that you are worried about it tells me right away you are a good mom. Try to take a breath. We’re going to take small steps here. Being a parent is hard, and you are not alone in your feelings.”

A simple sliver of hope and validation.

I feel the regret and self-imposed judgment disappear; the weight of the wave momentarily evaporates.

Small steps, I chant to myself. Small steps.

A week later, I am sitting on the floor with my youngest. We are in the middle of getting dressed for school. I pause as a random piece of fuzz from my shirt tickles my arm. “Something is tickling me,” I mutter in a confused voice that indicates the coffee clearly has not kicked in yet. Without missing a beat, my 5-year-old reaches out and tickles my stomach.

It takes me a second to realize he’s tickling me to be silly. I look up at his smiling, lit-up face as he moves down to tickling my knee.

I feel my eyes brighten, and I can’t help but giggle. “Yes, YOU are tickling me!” as I goofily poke him back. His laugh is pure and infectious.

These are the carefree moments I want to fold myself into. These small moments of joy and laughter—no regret, no frustration, just an airy ease. These are the moments I’m working to find…with each small step.

So God Made a Grandmother book by Leslie Means

If you liked this, you'll love our book, SO GOD MADE A GRANDMA

Order Now!

Amy Cirksena

Mother and freelancer living in Maryland. Lover of little details and all things pretty. A self-proclaimed watermelon slicing expert and firm believer that coffee is its own food group. Writes about love and loss to honor the memory of her daughter while exploring a journey of renewed hope with her two bubbly little boys.