Dear Younger Me

Dear Younger Me,

Sometimes, I wonder what you would think of the mother I am today. Would you be surprised, disappointed, proud? Would you wonder how I did it all, or would you expect nothing less?

Are you surprised by my lack of patience? Would you be disappointed that I raise my voice so much more than I promised I would? Does it remind you of how we grew up? Do you feel bad for the kids? Do you feel bad for me? Would you do things differently?

When you see I need time to decompress and be alone at the end of most days, would you understand, or would your heart ache for those kiddos trying to cuddle and spend more time with their mama? Would you say, “You can do better!” Or would you say, “No, I understand.”

Can you pick up on the tension and stress in the home? Does it take up all the space? Or do you see children that feel safe and loved? Children who give hugs, reach for hands, crawl into laps, and happily accept and give kisses to their mama? Do you see that? Can you see that? Does it shine through all of the arguing and messy chaos?

I am not entirely sure how you would receive me. I guess it would be a mix of pride and disappointment. But mostly, I hope you see that I am trying. I am trying, but it is a lot harder than we thought. Raising children is a whole lot harder than we thought.

Though I have tried, I cannot ignore the luggage we carry—the little broken pieces we hide and tuck away. It comes up here and there when you raise your own kids, sometimes when you least expect it. Raising kids is both healing and triggering.

We are fighters. We are familiar with the fight, and I know we take pride in that. It has gotten us to where we are. Motherhood is about fighting, but motherhood is also gentle. And we are still learning to let our guard down, to let go, and be gentle.

At times, it feels strange and complex, like a wave of stiffness radiating from my jaw to my legs. Other times, when I am frustrated or trying to keep up with all the demands of a schedule, house, and kids, I feel my body erupt with rage. I hate the rage. I loathe the rage. The rage scares me. It reminds me of her.

And I know that is the work I must do: make the connections, acknowledge the feelings, be self-aware, and break the cycle—for them but also for us. They deserve more. We deserved more.

Forgive me. Believe in me. Please tell me I am doing a great job. It is what I need to hear. We are our hardest critics: you, me, and us.

Those beautiful babies we made need us.

I promise I will keep trying. Always.

With Love,

Me