Let’s be real. Being a mom is hard. And I can’t speak from a dad’s point of view, but as a mother, I know what it’s like to juggle a million things at once. Every day, it’s the same questions. What do I feed the kids? How do I keep them happy, healthy, and growing? How do I deal with my own emotions while managing theirs? And if you’ve got little ones close in age like me, then you know exactly what I mean when I say all they want to do is argue. All. Day. Long.
But for me, it’s not just little kids close in age, it’s kids at every stage of life. I’ve got a 17-year-old son who’s figuring out life. A job, a new girlfriend, what’s next after high school. And I’m over here, hoping I’m guiding him the right way, that I’m doing right by him. Honestly? I get a lot of compliments on how well he’s turned out, and while I don’t like to toot my own horn, I’m going to say it, that gives me a little hope that maybe, just maybe, the little ones will turn out okay too.
Then there’s my twins, just starting elementary school, diving headfirst into first grade drama. All the girly emotions, all the ups and downs of making friends, learning routines, and figuring out this big world. Damon, my wild little boy, is full of energy, testing boundaries, growing into his own little person. And Dahlia, my sweet baby girl, is just starting to really become a baby. Teething, learning to crawl, learning to sleep. She’s still my little blob, but she’s blossoming.
Life is just crazy. There’s no better way to say it. It’s messy, it’s beautiful, it’s overwhelming. I never thought I’d be where I am, and I mean that in the best way possible.
Some days, it’s hard. Some days, I want to just sit and cry. But if even one mom reads this and knows she’s not alone, then I’ve done what I needed to do. Because you are seen. You are felt. You are heard. You are NOT alone.
It’s okay if your house is messy. It’s okay if that pile of laundry has been waiting to be folded for two weeks. It’s okay if your kids’ feet are dirty, if dinner was frozen pizza, if you lost your patience. It’s okay.
As long as you’re showing up. As long as your kids’ needs are met, as long as they’re loved and they know it, you’re doing enough. You’re making memories. You’re building their world and your own.
And something I really want to talk about is the pressure we feel now about breaking generational trauma. Because it’s real, and it’s heavy. There’s so much stigma around how we raise our kids, so much awareness now of what’s wrong and what not to do, that sometimes I sit there and I worry. I know I worry that I’m messing them up. I mean, honestly, I just don’t want to f*** up my kids. Excuse my language, but it’s true.
I want to do the best for them. I want them to know I love them, and that I’m trying. And even when their needs are met, I still question if I’m enough. It’s scary. It’s overwhelming. The emotions are so hard. You have to pick and choose your battles.
But one thing I’ve really tried to hold onto is this. When I lose it, I apologize. I tell them I’m sorry. I make sure they feel seen and heard too. Because that matters. I know what it’s like to not feel that way as a kid.
And don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to blame my parents. I don’t think they did a bad job because I had anxiety. Honestly, back then, no one really talked about mental health like we do now. It wasn’t something people understood or recognized, especially not in kids. Kids having anxiety? That was almost laughed off. It was brushed aside, like, “You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” or “Stop being dramatic.” Mental health in kids wasn’t something anyone really took seriously, at least in my experience.
And it’s not my parents’ fault, they didn’t know. People didn’t know. But I’m so glad that things are changing now, that we’re recognizing how real it is, and that we’re finally learning how important it is to talk about this stuff with our kids.
That’s why I want to do better. I want my kids to know it’s okay to have feelings, to talk about them, to not feel okay sometimes. I want them to know I see them, I hear them, and I care.
When I mess up, I talk to my kids. I explain why I yelled. I tell them I’m trying to do better, and that I’m still learning too. I want them to grow into people who take accountability, who understand that it’s human to make mistakes, but it’s powerful to own up to them.
I just hope that they respect me back. Because right now? A lot of the time, it feels like they don’t. And that’s hard. But I remember so clearly being that kid. It really doesn’t feel that far off, which is wild because time is such a thief.
It’s easy for me to step into their world because it doesn’t feel like it was that long ago.
We blink, and they’ll be grown. We blink, and they’ll be sitting where I am now, feeling everything I feel now. We blink, and everything changes. I know that’s true, because just three months ago, when my son turned 17, I sat there crying, thinking, how is he almost the same age I was when I had him? How did that many years pass? It’s bizarre. And I’m just so proud of the person he’s become.
I’m proud of my other kids too. I’m proud of our family and everything we’ve built together. Especially in the last six years since moving to Tennessee, I feel like we’ve grown so much. We’ve created something beautiful.
Life can be so crazy and overwhelming and hard. Some days, I just want to lay in bed and shut it all out. But even in those moments, it’s worth it. All of the stress, all of the emotions—it’s worth it.
And yes, I cry a lot. I talk about crying a lot because I’m the most emotional person ever. But sometimes I sit and think about what it would be like to not have all this craziness, and honestly, that scares me more than anything. One day, we’ll have a quiet house, and that makes me so, so sad.
This, right now, even the hardest days, is something I’ll miss.
“Even on the hardest days, I know I’ll look back and wish for one more. I cry about the noise, but I know I’ll cry even more when it’s gone.”
Words from my heart,
Melissa Miller
