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I’m Not Good at Being a Mom — But I’m Not a Bad Person


I love my kids with everything I have.

I would fight for them, die for them, show up for them any day, any time.

 

But I still wasn’t a good mom.

 

Not because I didn’t care.

Not because I didn’t try.

But because parenting? It’s a role I just don’t do well.

 

And saying that out loud doesn’t make me a monster.

It makes me honest.

 

I’ve always been good at jobs. Give me a to-do list, a goal, a deadline? I’ll crush it.

But motherhood doesn’t come with structure like that. There’s no clear “right,” no gold star at the end of the day. It’s messy, emotional, never-ending, and unpredictable. And that’s not where I thrive.

 

I’ve fumbled through it. I’ve yelled when I should’ve listened. I’ve shut down when I should’ve leaned in. I’ve gotten it wrong more times than I’ve gotten it right. And even though my kids didn’t ask for that version of me, that’s what they got.

 

And I hate that.

I hate that.

 

Because I know they deserved better.

 

But here’s the thing:

Being a bad mom doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.

It means I was trying to do something I wasn’t equipped for, while still carrying the weight of my own pain. It means I didn’t have the tools, the guidance, or the emotional capacity — not because I didn’t love them, but because I never learned how to love myself the way they needed to be loved.

 

I don’t hide behind excuses.

I don’t pretend it didn’t affect them.

I just want them to know that my failure as a mother was never a reflection of who they were.

It was a reflection of where I was.

 

And if they ever need me — not as the mom I couldn’t be, but as the person I am now — I will always, always show up.

 

Maybe motherhood wasn’t the job I did well.

But love? Loyalty? Honesty? Growth?

 

Those I can give them now.

And maybe, just maybe, that still counts for something.

 

Until next time,