Ten Years In: What Motherhood Has Taught Me
A decade of growth, grief, grace, and love beyond language
My son just turned ten. A whole decade.
I remember the day he was born like a film I still replay in my chest—not just for the birth of him, but for the birth of me. The version of myself who became a mother. Who stayed up all night Googling every cough and cry. Who learned how to love in ways I didn’t even know I had access to. Who broke down, softened, tried again.
Here are ten things I’ve learned over ten years of mothering. Not just about raising a child, but about becoming more deeply myself.
1. Rupture and repair is the heartbeat of real connection.
There was a day when my son was really upset, and the way he spoke to me triggered something deep, and I reacted from a place of anger. It only made everything worse. We were in the car, and by the time we got home, I felt that thick, hot sadness behind my eyes, the kind that signals tears are coming. I asked him if we could talk. When he said yes, I took accountability for how I spoke to him. I let him know I was reacting instead of responding—and that it wasn’t fair or appropriate. As soon as I softened, so did he. We ended our conversation with a snuggle and chat; our preferred way to repair.
I’ve learned that “good parenting” isn’t about getting it right every time; it’s about knowing how to come back. How to reconnect. How to say, “I was wrong. I love you. Let’s start over.”
2. My regulation is their regulation.
I am an exponentially better parent when I have tended to myself. Lately that’s looked like regular movement, early nights, reading for pleasure, and spending time with people who calm my nervous system rather than activate it.
I notice the impact instantly; how his body mirrors mine. If I’m dysregulated, he often is too. But when I breathe, pause, co-regulate with presence instead of panic, the shift is palpable. And it changes everything. This has been one of the most profound lessons of motherhood: that the work I do for myself is also for my children.
3. The world will try to rush them. I don’t have to join in.
There’s so much pressure to push forward, to grow up, to “get ahead.” But the sweetest days with my son are the slow ones—reading on the couch together, “sun lizarding” in our backyard, being silly, laughing until we can’t breathe. I encourage this slowness because I know the world will expect urgency from him. I want him to know that he can set his own pace, based on what he needs and when he needs it.
I protect that slowness like it’s sacred. Because it is.
4. Letting go is the quiet work of love.
Recently, he’s been asking about what he can do on his own—riding the elevator solo, picking up our coffee order, making plans with friends. Each request brings both pride and grief. Pride in his growing confidence. Grief in the quiet truth that every step toward independence is also a step away from me.
No one told me how many goodbyes are folded into the every day of parenting. But I’m learning that loving him means letting him go, piece by piece, while staying right here. I get to be an anchor that he has access to at any time, knowing that my job isn’t to hold him down, it’s to be a soft landing when he needs it.
5. I am not just their mother. I am still me.
I thought that becoming a mother meant I had to say goodbye to myself in order to enter this new role. And I did, for a while. What I have now learned is that in order to be the mama I want to be for my boys, I have to be the person I want to be for me. My existence cannot be only for them; the pressure that places on them to be tethered to me is a sense of obligation I never want my children to feel with me. So I hold space for myself. I remain curious about who I am and what I want. I check in with what’s bringing me joy and I do more of that. I assess what’s no longer working and I try, with intention, to release it. This curiosity anchors me.
I used to think self-abandonment was part of motherhood. Now I know the opposite is true: when I stay connected to my aliveness, I parent from fullness instead of depletion. And my kids feel that. They benefit from a mother who hasn’t disappeared.
6. The guilt never really goes away. I just learned to befriend it.
As a working mom, guilt is a frequent visitor. I worry that I’m not available enough. That I work too much. I worry that my priorities are off base. That my sons will think I’m “choosing” work over them, or worse, choosing my own wants and needs over theirs. But now that they’re 8 and 10, there’s more space for honest conversations. I get to tell them that my work is part of who I am—and that it allows me to care for others and for them. I let them know that they are one of the best parts of my life, and always will be, while acknowledging that wholeness doesn’t have to come from one source, for any of us.
The guilt still shows up. But I don’t let it drive. I listen, learn, and then lead with love and clarity.
7. Softness is not weakness. It’s wisdom.
Younger me used anger as armor. She yelled and screamed and cut people where she knew it would hurt. She was afraid of being soft. She was worried about being perceived as weak. Now I see softness as my superpower. It is much harder to stay soft in a world that hardens you—and yet, when I lean into tenderness, I make more room for intention, love, repair.
My softness opens doors that my defenses never could.
8. I’m raising him, but he’s raising me too.
My son is so unapologetically himself—it’s inspiring. He loves talking about his interests, getting lost in books, playing basketball and baseball, and cannonballing into swimming pools. Watching him own who he is has taught me how to embrace my own fullness in a way I didn’t know was possible.
He reminds me to stay curious, to stay kind, to stay me. I thought I was here to guide him, but he’s been guiding me the whole time.
9. Love doesn’t always look like ease.
Love shows up in the hard, quiet ways—saying no when it’s needed. Creating boundaries that keep him safe. Advocating for him even when he’s not in the room. Letting him know that while he won’t always get what he wants, he will always have what he needs.
Our love is steady. Straightforward. So that he never has to wonder where he stands with us.
10. There is no “right” way. Only our way.
I’ve stopped looking for someone else’s blueprint. I know now that the responsibility of parenting isn’t to replicate what’s been done—it’s to craft something new, something true. A path that is attuned to our family. Our rhythm. Our values.
I trust that more than anything else. Because it’s working. Because it feels right in my bones.
Ten years in, and I am still becoming.
Still softening. Still learning how to mother—not just my child, but myself.
To anyone ten years in or ten minutes in, I offer this: The love will undo you. And it will rebuild you. And in the end, you’ll find that both you and your child are more whole because of it.
To the one who ushered me into motherhood, I love you. Thanks for choosing me. Being your mom is the best part of my day, every single day. I love you x a million, to the moon, times infinity, and more than Tate’s chocolate chip cookies.
xo, mama