The Map I Had To Make

Celebrating my daughter's graduation from cosmetology school with my sister.

October 20, 2025

I’ve written very little about my kids and parenting.

Not because they aren’t central to my story,

but because so much of motherhood has felt too sacred to name.

I am wildly proud of each one of my children.

They are kind, curious, strong, and more emotionally intelligent than I knew how to be at their age.

And I am profoundly proud of me—

for doing the hard work of raising them, mostly on my own,

while raising myself at the same time.

There were years I didn’t know if I was getting any of it right.

But I kept showing up.

And somehow, through all the uncertainty, love found its way through every crack.

Recently, life gave me a sacred gift:

a present, consistent mother—

the kind I always dreamed of but never had until now.

Receiving that love in this season has softened something deep within me

and reminded me how powerful it is to break cycles not just for our children,

but for ourselves.

The Map I Had To Make

I didn’t grow up knowing what a mother’s love felt like.

I knew what absence felt like.

What longing felt like.

I knew how to read people’s faces for cues because I didn’t have a mother’s voice telling me I was okay.

So when I became a mother—three babies in three years, none of them planned—I had no blueprint.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I wanted them to know they were loved—

beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Unquestionably. Unconditionally. Every day.

But knowing what you want to give and knowing how to give it are not the same thing.

The Little Years were beautiful and brutal.

Diaper explosions at the worst possible moments.

Doctor appointments where I held my breath until they said everything was fine.

Projectile vomiting that could defy physics.

Unexplainable crying that echoed the ache inside me—the ache of wanting to do everything right, with no map to follow.

But those years were also filled with sweetness that could break your heart.

Little hands reaching for mine.

Giggles that made the hard days disappear.

The simple magic of being someone’s whole world.

And always—always—the worry.

The Middle Years brought new challenges.

Moods that shifted with the wind.

Friends who became their entire universe overnight.

Activities and commitments that turned my calendar into a chaotic game of Tetris.

School projects that somehow felt like my own homework.

Endless car rides to sleepovers, lessons, and “just hangouts”—always on the go, always coordinating, always watching the clock.

iPhones entered the picture—connecting them to friends and disconnecting them from me, all at once.

They tasted independence in small bites: private group chats, school dances, and opinions that didn’t always match mine.

And I worried.

Worried if I was holding on too tightly.

Worried if I was letting go too soon.

Worried if they could still feel, beneath all my flaws and fumbles, that they were loved beyond measure.

Then came The Teenage Years.

And in a strange, painful twist, we circled back to the crying.

Theirs. Mine. Both of us not always knowing why.

There were college applications that felt like existential crises.

Driving lessons that tested every nerve in my body.

Prom nights, first loves, heartbreaks, and the slow, inevitable ache of watching them step further away from me and closer to themselves.

Graduations came like a freight train.

Suddenly the house was quieter—but my heart wasn’t.

The emotional labor didn’t end.

The worry didn’t fade.

If anything, it deepened.

I made mistakes.

Plenty of them.

I’ve lost my temper.

Said the wrong things.

Overprotected. Underprotected.

Spent too much time chasing my own dreams and demons,

and not enough time with them.

But I also built joy and tradition.

Pie-baking parties at Thanksgiving.

Casual small talk that never questioned connection.

Late-night gatherings in Mom’s room, just to be together.

Simple rituals that stitched us close, even in the hardest seasons.

There’s a saying that “the days are long, but the years are short.”

I didn’t understand it until it was already true.

Along the way, I learned that it’s not the grand gestures that shape them—it’s the quiet consistency over time.

It’s not the vacations or picture-perfect moments they’ll carry with them; it’s the emotional memory of how safe, loved, and seen they felt in my presence.

I learned that teaching, coaching, and mentoring them matters far more than trying to control them.

That letting them grow, make mistakes, and learn alongside me was the real work of motherhood.

And I learned something I never expected—

That I could be raw, messy, angry, mean, funny, happy, warm, and loving, all in the same week…

and none of it would make them stop loving me.

They didn’t need me to be perfect.

They just needed me to be there.

And I was.

I didn’t have a map for motherhood.

But I built one.

Moment by moment.

Mistake by mistake.

Memory by memory.

And when I look at my children now—

Emotionally strong, beautifully human, fully themselves—

I know I did something right.

I built the kind of love I never had.

I broke cycles.

I learned as I went.

And I’m proud of them.

I’m proud of me too.

We built this life together.