As a licensed mental health counselor, I thought I was ready for motherhood.
I knew about postpartum anxiety. I knew the signs of intrusive thoughts, how to regulate my nervous system, and the importance of asking for help. I had the training. I had the tools. I even had a laminated worksheet on grounding techniques I used with clients all the time.
But when I became a mom, it all hit differently.
No training could prepare me for the moment I found myself crying in the kitchen for no apparent reason, just completely overwhelmed by hormones, exhaustion, and the weight of everything changing so fast. No therapy tool could quite capture the emotional whiplash of feeling completely in love and completely unhinged all at once.
It turns out that knowing about motherhood and living it are two entirely different things.
I knew about identity shifts. I had counseled new moms through transitions. But when I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself—exhausted, unshowered, and held together by dry shampoo and iced coffee—I realized how unprepared I was for the grief that can come with change. I missed the old me. And I felt guilty for missing her.
I knew about mom guilt. I’d told clients to let it go, to be gentle with themselves. But the first time I left my baby for a few hours to run errands, I cried in the Target parking lot. I felt like I had abandoned her. Even though she was safe. Even though I was just trying to refill the diaper drawer and maybe feel normal for an hour.
I knew about intrusive thoughts. I had read the research. But nothing prepared me for the fear that came crashing in uninvited—the “what ifs,” the vivid flashes of worst-case scenarios that hijacked my brain at 3 a.m. I reminded myself they were just thoughts, not truths. But still, they felt heavy.
And in those moments—tired, anxious, stretched beyond what I thought I could handle—what helped wasn’t some perfect therapeutic technique. It was giving myself permission to be human.
To be the therapist and the mom who’s struggling. To cry in the shower and text a friend, “This is really hard.” To laugh at the mess and say, “Me too,” when another mom shares her own chaos.
That’s where the healing happens—in the honesty.
Motherhood humbled me. It reminded me no one is immune to struggle, not even the professionals. It reminded me it’s okay to know the tools and still need help using them. It reminded me grace, not perfection, is what we all need most.
So if you’re a new mom who feels like you’re supposed to have it all figured out—or you’re wondering why you’re struggling when you “should be grateful”—please hear this from someone who knows both sides of the couch:
You’re not broken. You’re becoming.
Motherhood is hard. Even for therapists.
And that doesn’t make you any less capable.
It makes you human.
by Coralle Skye 
by Jordan Morgan 
