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,