I haven’t written much about being a mother. Not really.
It’s not because I don’t want to—it’s because I’ve been scared. Scared of judgment. Scared of being seen in a light I’m still trying to accept within myself. The truth is, I’m not where I want to be in life. But does that automatically make me a bad mom? I ask myself that more often than I’d like to admit.
Motherhood doesn’t come with a guidebook. I didn’t grow up with one in hand either. I was raised primarily by my grandmother while my mom worked the graveyard shift—just like I do now. And honestly? I’m tired. Tired of missing moments. Tired of stretching myself thin. Tired of trying to balance being everything to everyone and still feeling like it’s never enough.
I’ve been craving something more stable. A work-from-home job. A day shift. Something normal. Something that pays me what I know I’m worth—because the emotional cost of missing memories with my son is one I can no longer afford.
Sometimes I catch myself rambling, like now. But maybe that’s the point. It’s all tied together—this healing, this mothering, this evolving. I don’t want to get so focused on my healing that I forget to be a mother in the process. Can any of you relate?
We often hear men say, “I didn’t have a dad, so I didn’t know how to be one.” But we don’t always give mothers that same grace. I didn’t have a perfect model to pull from either. My mother and I are just now starting to understand each other better, thanks to therapy (which I definitely need to get back into). But that work is still ongoing, and sometimes the silence between us speaks louder than the progress.
Raising a son as a single mother is layered. Complex. Beautiful. Heavy. Especially when you’re a boy mom trying to teach things you’re still learning yourself. I find myself comparing—watching other moms enroll their kids in activities, travel with them, sacrifice in ways that make me question whether I’m doing enough.
Is it my debt holding me back? My fear of burnout? Or is it the unlearning of generational patterns that has me pausing before pushing myself over the edge?
I don’t have all the answers. But here’s what I do know:
- I love watching my son figure things out.
- I adore listening to him talk to his friends and share his thoughts so openly.
- I admire how empathetic he is—and I wonder, is that even common for a 12-year-old boy?
He’s a mixture of me and his dad. Two fire signs created another fire sign—and let me tell you, he burns bright. He challenges me, teaches me, and reminds me every day why I keep going.
He is one of the biggest blessings I’ve ever been trusted with, and I don’t take that lightly.
Will I share every detail of my motherhood journey? Probably not. Some parts are still sacred. Some parts are still healing. But maybe I’ll start sharing the 10% I am ready to talk about—because if I’m feeling this way, I know someone else is too.
So here I am, learning out loud. Growing out loud. Loving out loud.
This is me, figuring it out—one messy, magical, meaningful moment at a time.
“This isn’t a highlight reel. This is my real life, unfolding in real time.”
— Authentically Aries
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