#parenting truth

Before I became a mom, I thought I knew who I was. I had dreams, ambitions, and little rituals that made me feel like the star of my own story. Back then, the world seemed to bend around my choices. If I wanted to travel, I bought the ticket. If I wanted to work late, I did. I was the one moving the plot forward.

But parenting rewrote the script.

The moment my child came into the picture, I felt myself pushed out of the spotlight. Suddenly, I wasn’t the heroine chasing her dreams, I was the person backstage making sure the lights stayed on and the set didn’t collapse. The story wasn’t about me anymore; it’s not about me. My child became the main character, and I… well, I became more like the supporting role. Sometimes, even the silent extra.

People like to romanticize this shift. They say, “You’ll find yourself in your children,” or “They’ll become your whole world.” And sure, there are moments that feel true. Watching my child laugh, or learning their first words, it’s enough to melt me. But there’s also a hidden ache that comes with it.

Because when your identity shrinks to “just mom,” you stop asking yourself those uncomfortable questions: What makes me happy? What am I here for outside of this? What other parts of me still deserve to be nurtured? It’s tempting to drown in parenting, to use the chaos as an excuse not to face yourself.

I’ve seen parents handle it differently. Some people keep one child because it’s the only way they can still carry pieces of themselves forward, bring the kid along on work trips, juggle ambitions with motherhood, and stay in motion. Others have more kids and throw themselves completely into caretaking, because it’s easier to say “my kids are my everything” than to face the silence of who they are without them.

But no matter how many children you have, there’s this undeniable truth: you are no longer the main character. Their needs come first. Your storyline bends around theirs.

And sometimes, that loss cuts deeper depending on the kind of love you grew up with. Not everyone had parents who showed up unconditionally. Some of us had moms who made help feel transactional, like their support depended on whether they approved of us in the moment. I’ll never forget one story I heard about a daughter who got into a car accident on an icy morning. She called her mom, shaken and freezing, just ten minutes away. And instead of rushing to her side, her mom made her wait until she was “ready” to leave the house. Instead of comfort, she got criticism. No warmth, no “I’m glad you’re okay.”

When you grow up without that nurturing safety net, losing your own main character role as a parent feels even heavier. You wonder: if I’m not the star of my story anymore, and no one is shining the light on me, where do I even exist?

A friend was visiting the other day and was naturally completely smitten with my gorgeous, perfect little girl. Then it was naptime so I started to prepare Munchkin’s milk. As I measured out the formula, Munchkin lost it. Entirely.

And when she loses it, boy does she ever lose it. Breath holding, screaming and crying until she goes blotchy are all on the menu.

My friend kept trying to distract her. Lovely houseguest. I told her not to bother, which obviously made me look like the world’s worst parent because Munchkin was throwing such a fit that the only sane conclusion was that there was something wrong.

Then I picked Munchkin up.

And the hysterics stopped immediately. Like a light switch had been flipped.

I’m retty sure we are in deep trouble. If this is what 1 is like, what are we going to do at 2? Or, dear lord, 16?

Munchkin when I tell her not to throw her food on the ground.

Me: We don’t throw food on the ground. No. If you throw it, there won’t be any more.

Her: *shakes head at me, smiles adorably, then throws the food down on the other side of her high chair.*

Me: Uh oh. all gone.

Her: *shouts and points at food*

Me: Okay, but if you thow it, there won’t be any more.

Munchkin slept through the night, last night! Only took 13 months.

Mum at play group was telling me how her son started walking at 10 months:

Her: He’s just so active. (as baby stands and looks around calmly)

Me: How old is he, now?

Her: One year.

Me: Munchkin is 12 months, too. What did you do for his birthday?

Her: Well, actually, he’s not 12 months until mid-July.

So...by 1 year, you actually meant 10 months? Excuse me, but while your kid is standing around looking like a meerkat, mine has picked a fight with a kid almost twice her age and appears to be winning.

Oh, how I miss the days when I could just roll over, put the pillow over my head and go back to sleep.