What I’d tell my first-time mom self: a letter from the other side

I cannot believe this was almost 10 years ago! 4 under 6 *gasp [this picture was taken a year into my single motherhood season]

Dear younger me and dear young mom,

You're standing in the living room — dishes in the sink, toys underfoot, a baby on your hip. Your coffee is cold again, and your body aches in places you didn’t even know could ache. You’re running on fumes, trying to remember if you moved the clothes to the dryer or are they still sitting in the washer since Monday.

And in the middle of the mess, you’re wondering if you’re doing any of it right.

I wish I could sit beside you on the couch (maybe even fold that basket of laundry while we talk). I wish I could look you in the eyes and tell you what I know now — not because I’ve figured it all out, but because I’ve walked a few more miles down this road. And here’s what I’d tell you and myself, if I could go back and chat with her while we cooked dinner:

1. You’re not failing. You’re learning.

Every tear you shed in the bathroom while your baby cries in the next room isn’t a sign you’re falling apart — it’s proof you’re human. And you’re learning something new every single day. No one starts motherhood knowing how to do it all. You’re becoming, slowly and beautifully, through the questions, the trial and error, the stretching.

Give yourself the grace to grow.

2. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be present.

Your baby doesn’t need a flawless mom. They need you — with your tired eyes and tender heart. They need your voice, your smell, your arms wrapped around them when the world feels too loud. The connection you’re building, one imperfect moment at a time, is what will last. That’s what matters most.

3. It’s okay to feel a bit lost at times.

You’ll go through seasons where you feel like your identity is wrapped up in what you do for your little ones. And you will wonder what happened to the woman who used to read books, make plans, chase dreams, stay on top of dinner, and solve problems for others — she feels far away. But you haven’t lost her. In the process of feeling lost, you are becoming more like Christ- if you lean in. This season is growing your heart, your strength, your capacity. And when the fog lifts, you’ll find that the things you loved — the things God placed in your heart, long ago, are still there. You are now wiser, softer, stronger because of the season you are in.

4. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to ask for help.

You’re not weak for needing a break. You don’t have to prove your strength by doing it all alone. Let people in. Let them bring meals. Let someone hold the baby so you can take a nap or a shower or just breathe in silence. Needing help doesn’t mean you’re failing — it means you’re human.

5. Your work is holy, even when it feels invisible.

No one may see the thousand quiet sacrifices you make each day — the meals you prepare, the messes you clean, the stories you read on repeat. But heaven sees. And this work, as ordinary as it looks, is sacred. You are building something eternal, right there in the middle of the laundry piles and snack wrappers. Don’t underestimate it.

6. Not every moment will feel magical — and that’s okay.

Some days you’ll cry more than your toddler. Some days you’ll question why you ever thought you could do this. Some days the only thing you’ll accomplish is keeping everyone alive. Your every day motherhood journey will not look like the Pinterest worthy pictures we see on our screens. No one takes pictures of the piles of clothes needing to be washed, no one photographs the 3-day-old pots sitting on their stove, the sticky floors under the highchair doesn’t make the cut. But all of those things make up real life, and they make up your home right now. It’s amazing how you are giving it your best and yet the floors are still dirty — that’s okay! Motherhood isn’t measured in picture-perfect moments. It’s measured in the showing up, and the doing it again.

7. You are doing better than you think.

You are. I promise.

There’s no manual for this, and still — you’re loving fiercely. You’re trying. You’re giving your whole heart. And one day, you’ll look back on these long days and realize how much strength and beauty they held.

So to the you who is tired, unsure, and just trying her best — I see you. And you are not alone.

Keep going, mama. You are becoming something beautiful.

Cheering you on, always,
🧡