04/26/2025
I’ve seen so much in the media lately about parenthood and whether or not those of us with kids are miserable (thanks, Chappell). The answer? It varies. We’re either deeply grateful for or in need of that illustrious village that helps us raise our child. We might be in the throes of mental health issues. Or on the upswing of healing from an autoimmune flare. Realizing we might actually be figuring out this developmental stage, or treading water with our chin above the latest toddler/teen crisis. Sometimes we feel like we absolutely breezed through a difficult conversation, sometimes we’re staring at the wall after bedtime, wondering if we’ve caused our humans irreparable harm. One thing’s for sure, we’re learning to stretch and grow and apologize as much as (more than?) our kids. We’re being refined to be braver, stronger, less selfish. To quote the bard (Tina Fey), “Being a mom has made me so tired. And so happy.” Check on your parent friends. We might occasionally be “in hell.” (Fellow PPD survivors, where you at. ✌🏼) And we need help, whether the ask is loud or quiet. But whether this “mom”/“dad” title was planned or unplanned, we’re sure as heck called to this. And we have little passengers to help trundle through to the other side, so we dust off our “parent” badge and muster up the best of us to give them. Parenthood is trial by fire, a lifelong journey of realizing we don’t know everything. And parenthood is full of the most beautiful yard flowers, the biggest laughs, and the tiniest of hands thrust into your palm with the full trust that you’ll protect them. It’s the weight of the world and a gift from eternity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go clean rice out of the Lego box. 🌻
