I can hear my toddler starting to wake up, but she’s content in her crib reading her books, so I leave her for a little while.

I get my own reading in, sign onto work, check my schedule and make sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for me.

Everything looks pretty quiet.

Famous last words.

7:00 AM

The baby is still sleeping, so for the first time in what feels like forever, I actually go wake him up.

We’re not counting the 3:30 AM wake-up. That feels irrelevant to the story.

We do our normal morning routine—breakfast, take the dog for a walk, get everyone dressed and loaded into the car.

The baby sleeping in puts us slightly behind schedule, but I’m certainly not complaining about that.

8:15 AM

We make it to the gym.

I’ve been going earlier lately and really like it. It’s less crowded and seems to fit our current schedule better.

I get in a quick 45-minute workout while the kids hang out in childcare.

I used to use some of this time to work, but lately I haven’t needed to. Right now, the earlier workout is working for us, so I’m going with it.

9:15 AM

We head home and the baby falls asleep in the car approximately five minutes before we get there.

Of course.

I attempt the transfer. It doesn’t go particularly well. He’s fussy, but eventually I get him settled for his morning nap.

I sign onto work while my toddler plays next to me.

She’s currently obsessed with Play-Doh, so I’m bouncing between answering her requests to play and knocking out some administrative work that doesn’t require my full attention.

A little work.

A little Play-Doh.

Back to work.

This is pretty much what working from home with kids looks like for me.

10:00 AM

The baby wakes up, I feed him, and we head outside before it gets too hot.

We go to the park.

We swing, pick flowers and chase dragonflies.

I’ve stopped bringing my phone with me for these little outings lately, and I’m loving it. There’s nothing to check, photograph or document. I’m just there with them.

And somewhere in the middle of chasing dragonflies around the playground, I have the thought:

We are crushing today.

Everyone is happy. I got my workout in. I’ve gotten some work done. We’ve been outside.

One of those mornings where everything just seems to click.

11:30 AM

We get home and I sit the kids down for lunch.

I casually glance at my computer.

Message from my supervisor.

Urgent meeting. Five minutes.

Well then. Glad I checked in when I did.

I look at the kids. I look at the clock. We’re already getting close to nap time.

But this is also my job.

So I take a breath and figure it out.

I turn on a show for the kids, grab my computer and join the meeting thinking this will probably take a few minutes.

Thirty-five minutes later, the client is still talking.

The baby is getting fussy.

My toddler is still watching TV.

Nap time is getting later by the second.

And that perfectly smooth morning we were having?

Yeah. We’ve officially gone off script.

12:20 PM

The meeting finally ends.

Everyone is cranky.

We clean up lunch, I get both kids ready, and eventually everyone is in bed.

I sit back down at my computer to get some work done.

And this is actually the part of the day I keep thinking about.

Because a year ago, something like that meeting would have completely derailed me.

Not just my schedule. Me.

I would have stressed about the TV being on.

Stressed about nap being late.

Stressed about the baby getting overtired.

And somewhere along the way, I probably would have started questioning the entire arrangement.

Can I actually work from home with my kids?

Is this sustainable?

Am I doing too much?

Today, I didn’t.

I took a breath.

I turned on the TV.

I took my meeting.

I got everyone down for naps.

And then I kept going.

Because one chaotic 35 minutes doesn’t mean the entire day was chaotic.

It doesn’t mean our routine isn’t working.

And it definitely doesn’t mean I need to rethink a setup that works for us 99% of the time because something unexpected happened.

These surprise meetings are incredibly rare for me. Maybe once a quarter.

But when they do happen now, I’ve had enough practice to know what to do.

I figure it out.

Which is probably the most accurate answer I can give when someone asks me:

“But how exactly do you work from home full-time with both kids home?”

There isn’t some secret I’ve been keeping.

I’ve just done it long enough to figure out what works for us.

And when something doesn’t?

I figure that out, too.

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Lately, I’ve been getting some version of the same question over and over again:

How are you actually working from home full-time with two kids home with you?

I get it on Instagram. I get it on Substack. I hear it from friends and family.

And if you’ve asked me this, I promise I’m not calling you out.

Because some people genuinely want to know. Maybe they’re considering keeping their kids home. Maybe they’re trying to figure out childcare. Maybe they’re looking for a work-from-home job and wondering if this kind of setup is even possible.

But I’ve also started wondering if sometimes when we ask someone, “How do you do that?” we’re not actually asking for instructions.

We’re comparing.

We’re trying to figure out what they have that we don’t.

Or we’re looking for the part of their situation that explains why it works for them but could never work for us.

And the funny thing is, I think I’ve been on both sides of this my entire life.

I used to think everyone should want what I wanted

In college, I joined a sorority.

I loved it. I made friends, had experiences I’m incredibly grateful for, and looking back, I’m glad I did it.

But I remember people making comments about how I had so many friends because I was in a sorority.

And maybe that was partially true.

But there was always something about those conversations that felt less like curiosity and more like an explanation:

Well, of course you have all these friends. You joined a sorority.

Later, my husband and I got involved in a network marketing business.

And that experience taught me this lesson on a much bigger scale.

At the time, I genuinely couldn’t understand why everyone wouldn’t want it.

More time? More money? Financial independence? Being your own boss? Surrounding yourself with ambitious people with huge goals?

Why wouldn’t everyone want that?

But eventually I learned something incredibly obvious that took me a surprisingly long time to understand:

Wanting the outcome and wanting to do what it takes to create the outcome are two completely different things.

And even more importantly?

Not everyone wants the same outcome in the first place.

Now it’s working from home

These days, the thing people seem most fascinated by is the fact that I work a full-time corporate job from home while keeping my two young kids home with me.

People ask how I do it.

People tell me they could never do it.

I’ve even had friends and family tell me that if we have a third baby, I’ll probably finally have to quit my job.

And there is a part of my personality that hears that and immediately thinks:

Watch me.

Because I don’t actually believe that.

I have spent the last two years building our life around this.

I’ve created routines. I’ve created systems. I’ve learned which parts of my job need uninterrupted attention and which don’t. I’ve learned how to use naps, early mornings, independent play, gym childcare, evenings and random pockets of time throughout the day.

And every time something changes, I adjust.

A nap gets shorter? I adjust.

The baby changes his schedule? I adjust.

Both kids get sick and we can’t use gym childcare? I figure it out.

That’s probably the most accurate answer I could ever give someone about how I do this:

I just keep figuring it out.

There was never a magical schedule handed to me that made working from home with kids possible.

There was just a life I really wanted, followed by a lot of trial and error to make that life work.

But that doesn’t mean you should do it

This is probably the part I’ve had to learn.

My sister and I are a perfect example.

We are incredibly similar in a lot of ways, and we’re raising our kids at almost the exact same stage of life.

But she has told me repeatedly that she could never do what I do.

She doesn’t want to be home working with her kids all day.

And for a long time, my instinct would’ve been to explain how she could.

Here’s the schedule.

Here’s the system.

Here’s how I take calls.

Here’s when I get my work done.

Here’s how you could make it work, too.

Except…

She doesn’t want to.

And that’s okay.

I think I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to convince people that the thing that worked for me could work for them, too.

Join the sorority.

Start the business.

Work from home.

Keep your kids home.

Try this routine.

Do it this way.

And I’m finally realizing that people are going to build the lives they actually want to build.

Just like I did.

Which brings me back to this platform

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much of my actual life I want to put on the internet.

Because theoretically, I could show you exactly how I do this.

I could film my entire day.

I could show when I log onto my computer, when the kids wake up, when I breastfeed, when I take calls, when we leave the house, when they nap, when I work again, what I’m doing while they’re playing and what happens when the entire schedule inevitably falls apart.

Maybe that content would perform well.

Maybe people would find it fascinating.

Maybe it would answer the question once and for all:

But how are you ACTUALLY doing this?

But the more I think about it, the more I realize…

I don’t really want to.

I don’t want my house to become a set.

I don’t want everything I love doing to become content.

I don’t want to feel like I need surveillance cameras around my house so strangers on the internet can determine whether my life is actually possible.

And most importantly, I don’t think I need to prove anything.

I can tell you what works for me.

I can share the routines I’ve created.

I can tell you what I’ve learned.

I can write about working from home, motherhood, ambition, boundaries and trying to build a life where my career fits around my family instead of my family fitting around my career.

But I don’t need to convince you to want it.

And I don’t need to convince you that you could do it, too.

Maybe that’s what I’m finally learning

There are plenty of work-from-home jobs.

There are plenty of childcare arrangements.

There are plenty of ways to build a career.

There are plenty of ways to be a mom.

The internet has given us more information about how other people live than we’ve ever had before.

Maybe what we need isn’t another person showing us exactly how they do everything.

Maybe we need to get better at deciding what we actually want.

Because if you genuinely want to figure something out, you’ll probably start figuring it out.

You’ll search for the job.

You’ll change the routine.

You’ll try something that doesn’t work.

You’ll adjust.

You’ll try again.

That’s basically what I’ve done.

Not because I’m better at working from home.

Not because I have some magical secret.

But because keeping my kids home while continuing my career became important enough to me that I kept rearranging my life until I found a way to make it work.

And if your priorities look completely different?

Build your life around those instead.

I’m realizing I don’t want this platform to be about convincing anyone to live like me.

I just want a place to write about the life I’m choosing to build.

And maybe that’s enough.

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When my daughter turned six months old, I went through that very humbling motherhood experience where the second you think you’ve gotten the hang of it, everything changes.

We had finally started sleeping through the night.

Yes, we sleep trained. Judge me if you want.

And by “we,” I mostly mean my husband.

It took one night of him sleeping with the baby monitor because heck knows a breastfeeding mom cannot hear her baby wake up and just peacefully roll over and go back to sleep. At least I can’t. The second I hear that cry, my milk comes in and now I have two options: get up, feed the baby and have them back asleep in five minutes… or get up and pump.

You better believe I’m choosing the five-minute option.

So my husband has actually sleep trained both of our babies.

Anyway.

Around six months, my daughter was sleeping 12 hours at night. We were thriving on nap schedules. I finally felt like I had breastfeeding figured out.

And then we started solids.

And apparently I decided this was also the appropriate time to become a homesteader.

My Very Brief Career as a Sourdough Mom

I personally chose baby-led weaning because, after looking into it and talking to people I trusted, it was what I felt most comfortable with.

But somehow introducing solids quickly spiraled into me researching everything we ate.

Suddenly I was making homemade meals. Reading every ingredient label. Questioning packaged snacks. Learning that slapping the word “organic” on something didn’t automatically make it the healthiest option.

And then I started making sourdough.

Because obviously.

For a brief period of time, I really thought I was going to become that mom.

The homemade bread. The homemade meals. The perfectly stocked refrigerator. The whole thing.

Except there was one small problem.

I was also working from home full-time.

With a six-month-old.

While breastfeeding.

While trying to get my postpartum body back.

Turns out my new Instagram-inspired homesteading personality was not particularly sustainable.

The sourdough lasted maybe a month or two.

I let my starter die.

Her name was Queenie.

RIP Queenie.

I eventually realized I was trying to force myself into this image I had of the typical stay-at-home mom.

Except I’m not a stay-at-home mom.

I’m a work-from-home mom.

And yes, there is a difference.

Then I got pregnant again when my daughter was ten months old.

I was still breastfeeding. I was pregnant and nauseous. It was the middle of summer and approximately 7,000 degrees outside.

There was more screen time than I would’ve liked to admit.

There was significantly less homemade anything.

And somewhere along the way, I started letting go of the idea that I was going to do every part of motherhood perfectly.

I figured my bread-making days were over.

Except Maybe They Weren’t

Now I’ve done the two-under-two thing. My son is starting solids, and my daughter is two.

And I’ve realized something about myself.

I’m very all or nothing.

If something doesn’t work right now, my brain immediately goes:

Well, I guess we’re never doing that.

If I don’t like leaving my kids with someone at this age?

Guess we can never leave them.

If I can’t fit a three-mile run into my schedule?

Guess I’m not running.

If I don’t have time to maintain a sourdough starter and make beautiful loaves of bread?

Guess I’m not a bread-making mom.

I’ve always thought in these very permanent terms.

Recently, both my parents and my in-laws visited, and I was venting to a friend afterward about how I genuinely don’t feel comfortable leaving both kids with either set of grandparents right now.

And listen, I talk about my in-laws plenty, but my parents aren’t perfect either.

Sometimes I look at my mom and think, You had twins. How are you struggling this much with one baby?

But I also know I probably have unrealistic expectations.

I’m with these kids all day.

I know exactly what they’re going to do before they do it.

I know that if my two-year-old gets five unsupervised seconds, there’s a solid chance she’ll have climbed her toddler tower onto the kitchen counter.

I know their routines. Their weird little habits. Their schedules. Their tells.

Someone who doesn’t live in our house doesn’t.

So I was explaining to my friend that I just don’t think either set of grandparents can handle both of them alone right now.

And she said something so simple:

“It won’t always be this way.”

Eventually my daughter will be older.

She’ll be more independent.

She won’t require eyes on her every second.

She’ll be able to play with her grandparents instead of making them chase her around making sure she isn’t scaling the kitchen cabinets.

It won’t always be this way.

And for some reason, that sentence has stuck with me.

Because motherhood is made up of seasons.

Something being impossible right now doesn’t mean it’s impossible forever.

And something working beautifully right now doesn’t mean I have to keep doing it forever either.

And Somehow, the Bread Came Back

I never revived Queenie.

Sourdough and I are still on a break.

But recently, I started making regular homemade bread again.

And you want to know the crazy part?

I’ve actually kept up with it.

Usually about once a week.

Not because I suddenly found all this extra time in my schedule.

I still work full-time.

I still have a baby.

I still have a two-year-old.

I’m still breastfeeding.

I’m still trying to work out.

I’m still doing all the normal things that made sourdough feel impossible the first time around.

The difference is that now my two-year-old helps me make it.

She stands in her toddler tower and scoops and pours the ingredients.

She sticks her hands in the flour.

She squishes the dough like it’s Play-Doh.

There’s flour everywhere.

It is absolutely not the aesthetically pleasing bread-making experience you see on Instagram.

But she loves it.

She actually asks to do it now.

“Help Mama.”

Which means: get my toddler tower because I would like to participate in whatever you’re doing.

The first time we made bread together, she was genuinely upset when I told her we had to leave the dough alone to rise.

So now we hug it.

We give it a kiss.

And the bread “takes a nap” while she takes hers.

It’s become this little thing we both look forward to.

She’s also more likely to eat something when she’s helped me prepare it. The baby loves gnawing on the crust. My husband gets to walk into a house that smells like a bakery.

Everybody wins.

My sister is a pediatric occupational therapist, and she talks a lot about how we don’t necessarily need to buy kids a million stimulating toys. There are so many things we already do around the house that they can safely participate in.

Making bread happens to be one of ours.

And when I mention this, I’ve had moms say:

“I don’t know how you have time to make bread.”

That’s just it.

I don’t.

I Don’t Need More Time

I think that’s what I’ve been realizing lately.

I don’t need to find more time.

I need to decide what I want to do with the time I already have.

If you’re sitting here reading this article, there’s probably something more “productive” you technically could be doing right now.

You could be folding laundry.

Cleaning your kitchen.

Answering an email.

Doing one of the approximately 4,000 things sitting on your mental to-do list.

But instead, you made time to sit here and scroll Substack.

I’m not knocking you.

I do it too.

That’s the point.

We make time for the things we decide are worth making time for.

And I’m starting to realize I’ve spent years thinking I was really good at time management when what I’m actually learning now is priority management.

I’m Trying This With Exercise Too

I’ve wanted to start running again.

But I still have a baby waking up around 4 a.m., and once bedtime is finally over at night, running outside in 90-degree heat is approximately the last thing I want to do.

Old me would’ve thought:

Well, I can’t go for a real run right now, so I guess I’m not running.

Instead, I’ve started lightly jogging during our morning stroller walks.

Nothing crazy.

I’m not suddenly training for a half marathon.

I’m just running a little.

Because I was already going for the walk anyway.

I’ve been doing the same thing with working out.

I’ve temporarily taken the kids out of gym childcare after a few things happened that I wasn’t completely comfortable with. I talked to the manager, and we’ll probably revisit it. I think summer has made things chaotic with more kids there.

But for now, I don’t have gym childcare.

And for a couple of days, I found myself thinking the only way I could get a workout in was to put my toddler in front of the TV while I exercised.

Then one day I realized:

Wait.

I’m already sitting in the playroom watching them play.

Why can’t I just do it here?

So now I get on the floor.

Does a 20-minute workout sometimes take me 45 minutes because someone needs to go pee-pee, the baby spits up, somebody needs me, or I have to stop what I’m doing approximately 17 times?

Absolutely.

But I was going to spend those 45 minutes in the room with them anyway.

I can sit on the carpet watching them play.

Or I can lie on the carpet watching them play while doing pelvic-floor exercises, core breathing and a few movements between interruptions.

Neither one requires me to magically find another hour in my day.

I’ve Already Been Doing This With Work

The funny thing is, I already figured this out in one area of my life.

Work.

Would I love to have eight completely uninterrupted hours every day to sit at a desk and work?

Sure.

Do I have that?

Absolutely not.

But my corporate job is necessary for our family right now. It contributes significantly to our household income.

So I figured it out.

I created systems.

I found pockets of time.

I adjusted.

I stopped waiting for the perfect conditions and figured out how to make it work in the season we’re currently in.

And now I’m realizing I can do that with other things too.

Not everything.

That’s important.

I cannot prioritize everything at once.

But I can decide what matters enough right now to make room for.

Maybe this season it’s making bread with my daughter.

Maybe it’s moving my body for 20 interrupted minutes on the playroom floor.

Maybe it’s jogging half of our morning walk instead of waiting until I have enough time for a “real” run.

Maybe six months from now, none of those things will fit anymore.

That’s okay too.

Maybe It’s Not a Time-Management Problem

I think we throw around “I don’t have time” when sometimes what we really mean is:

That’s not a priority for me right now.

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

You don’t have to make bread.

You don’t have to work out.

You don’t have to run.

You don’t have to do any of the things another mom on Instagram is doing.

Maybe DoorDash is worth the money to you because not cooking gives you an extra hour with your kids.

Maybe grocery delivery is worth every penny because you’d rather spend Saturday morning doing something else.

Great.

That’s priority management.

The problem comes when we’re constantly looking at someone else’s life and thinking:

Must be nice to have time for that.

Because she might not have more time than you.

She might have just decided to spend hers differently.

I certainly didn’t stumble across an extra hour in my day to become a bread-making mom.

I just realized that instead of sitting on the floor playing Play-Doh with my daughter that afternoon, we could play with bread dough.

She gets an activity.

I get bread.

There’s flour all over my floor.

Everyone’s happy.

And for the record, I am probably the least homestead-looking bread-making mom you’ll ever meet.

Think less flowy linen dress gathering eggs from the chicken coop.

More corporate girl with freshly painted nails making bread in between Teams calls.

But maybe that’s the other thing motherhood is teaching me.

I don’t have to become a certain type of mom to do certain types of things.

And I don’t have to decide that because something doesn’t fit into my life today, it never will.

It won’t always be this way.

The babies get older.

Schedules change.

Priorities shift.

Things that once worked stop working.

Things you thought you’d given up sometimes find their way back to you in a completely different form.

So maybe the goal isn’t figuring out how to perfectly manage every hour of every day.

Maybe it’s figuring out what matters in this season—and being willing to make room for it.

Right now, apparently, mine includes homemade bread.

Just don’t ask me to revive Queenie.

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I practiced setting a boundary this week.

And strangely enough, it wasn’t with my in-laws.

It wasn’t with the friend I recently wrote about.

It wasn’t even with someone asking too much of me.

It was with an opportunity I actually wanted.

I was asked to take on a speaking role at an upcoming leadership event. I would have been speaking live in front of a couple hundred people, with the event also being streamed to people across the country.

Pre-kids me?

Immediate yes.

Honestly, I probably would have been flattered they asked, excited about the opportunity, and already mentally planning my outfit.

I love public speaking.

My husband reminded me of that while I was debating what to do.

“You’re really good at this. People enjoy hearing you speak.”

And he’s right.

Speaking, leadership events, networking, getting dressed up in professional clothes, doing my hair and makeup and stepping into that version of myself—I genuinely enjoy all of it.

Which is exactly why saying no felt so strange.

Because I’m learning that boundaries aren’t always about saying no to things you hate.

Sometimes they’re about saying no to things you love.

The opportunity wasn’t actually asking that much of me.

That’s probably why I almost talked myself into it.

I’m still planning to attend the event. Taking the speaking role wouldn’t have required some massive sacrifice of my calendar.

There would have been some preparation.

Some practicing.

Some additional coordination.

But realistically?

I could have made it work.

And that’s the phrase that gets me into trouble:

I could make it work.

Because I almost always can.

I can rearrange the schedule.

I can wake up earlier.

I can pump at a different time.

I can prepare after the kids go to bed.

I can squeeze something into naptime.

I can sacrifice a little sleep.

I can figure it out.

But lately I’ve started asking myself a different question:

Does this get me closer to my goals right now, or further away from them?

And if the answer is further away, I’m learning that I’m allowed to say no—even when technically I could make it work.

I’m reading a book about boundaries for a reason.

After writing so much about my relationship with my in-laws, several people recommended Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend.

The subtitle alone has been sitting with me:

When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life.

And on the back of my copy is essentially the question I’ve been wrestling with lately:

Are you in control of your life?

Because if I’m being truthful, there have been plenty of moments in motherhood when I haven’t felt like I am.

Your body isn’t entirely yours.

Your sleep isn’t entirely yours.

Your schedule isn’t entirely yours.

Someone needs to eat.

Someone needs to nap.

Someone wakes up.

Someone gets sick.

Someone needs you.

Motherhood requires sacrifice almost constantly.

Which means maybe I need to become more protective of the areas where I do get a choice.

Cloud and Townsend’s book explores boundaries not only in family relationships, but with friends, work, ourselves and other areas of life. The premise is much broader than simply figuring out how to deal with difficult people.

And I think that’s what I’ve been getting wrong about boundaries.

I thought boundaries were mostly for other people.

When I started reading about boundaries, I was thinking about my in-laws.

Then I started thinking about a friendship where I’ve recently created some distance.

Those made sense to me.

Someone does something that affects you negatively → you establish a boundary.

Easy enough.

But what about something good?

What about an opportunity?

What about something you’ve always enjoyed?

What about something that would probably make you feel accomplished?

What about something you could do?

Apparently, those need boundaries too.

Because every yes costs something—even when the thing you’re saying yes to is good.

And right now, the cost matters to me.

My priorities are different right now.

I have a two-year-old and a seven-month-old.

I just got my baby sleeping.

Do you know what that means to a mother who hasn’t consistently slept in seven months?

I’m not voluntarily waking myself up more than I absolutely have to.

I’m breastfeeding. I’m pumping. I’m slowly trying to build a little milk supply for an event my husband and I want to attend in a couple of months.

I have goals with my kids.

I have reading goals.

I have personal goals.

I have fitness goals.

I have writing goals.

I have things I’m trying to build.

And perhaps most importantly, I’m trying to recover some mental capacity after seven months of having a baby.

A speaking engagement doesn’t only take the 20 minutes you’re standing on a stage.

It occupies space in your brain beforehand.

What am I going to say?

Have I practiced enough?

What am I wearing?

When am I getting ready?

How does this affect pumping?

Do I need to move something else around?

Did I prepare enough?

None of those things individually are a big deal.

But I’ve learned that my capacity isn’t usually depleted by one enormous thing.

It’s depleted by 37 little things I’ve convinced myself aren’t a big deal.

So I said no.

I used to think saying yes was how you got ahead.

And to be fair, I still think there was a season when it served me incredibly well.

Early in my career, I remember hearing advice along the lines of: when opportunities come up, say yes.

So I did.

Yes to the project.

Yes to the responsibility.

Yes to coming early.

Yes to staying late.

Yes to leadership opportunities.

Yes to figuring something out even if I had absolutely no idea how to do it yet.

And that mentality helped me.

I moved through my career faster than I expected. I took on opportunities that scared me. I developed skills I wouldn’t have developed otherwise.

There was a season when saying yes helped build the person I was becoming.

Maybe this is the season when saying no does the same thing.

That’s the part I’m only beginning to understand.

Saying no isn’t necessarily a sign that I’m less ambitious than I used to be.

Maybe I’m finally ambitious enough about the life I’m trying to build that I’m willing to protect it.

Saying no also protects me from resentment.

This might be the biggest realization I’ve had.

I’ve noticed myself beginning to resent people, obligations and even activities that I genuinely like.

And sometimes it isn’t because they’re asking too much of me.

It’s because I keep giving too much of myself to them.

That’s an uncomfortable distinction.

Because if I agree to something I don’t actually have the capacity for, then spend weeks feeling overwhelmed and irritated about having to do it…

Was the problem really the person who asked?

Or was the problem that I didn’t say no?

Had I accepted this speaking engagement and then my baby stopped sleeping, my milk supply dipped, I couldn’t find time to prepare, or I felt completely overwhelmed the week before it, I know myself.

I might have started resenting an opportunity that I genuinely enjoy.

Saying no now means maybe I get to continue loving it later.

And you know what happened when I finally said no?

Nothing.

This was the part that almost made me laugh.

I had built the conversation up in my head.

I was nervous about declining.

I wondered whether I should explain myself.

I wondered whether they’d be disappointed.

And essentially the response was:

Okay. No worries.

There are other people who can do it.

That’s it.

I spent considerably more time thinking about saying no than the other person spent receiving my no.

Someone else will take the speaking slot.

Someone else will say yes.

Someone else might be in exactly the season where this opportunity is what they need.

And that’s actually kind of wonderful.

Not every opportunity presented to me is for me.

Apparently my two-year-old understands this better than I do.

My daughter’s favorite word right now is:

No.

We just took her to her first swim lesson, and afterward the instructor came over and told me:

“I heard a lot of nos today.”

And while, yes, she’s two and we’re going to continue helping her safely get outside her comfort zone…

I couldn’t help thinking:

Wow.

Must be nice.

She doesn’t want to do something?

No.

She’s uncomfortable?

No.

She has absolutely no interest in your proposal?

NO.

Meanwhile, I’m 30-something years old conducting a full internal board meeting over whether I’m allowed to politely decline a speaking engagement.

Maybe I need a tiny bit of toddler energy in my boundary-setting era.

I still don’t feel completely comfortable with my decision.

I think that’s important to admit.

I’m still attending the event.

I’m probably going to see whoever took the speaking slot.

And I’m going to have to fight the urge to sit there thinking:

I could have done that.

Maybe I should have said yes.

I probably could have helped someone.

I would have done a good job.

And all of those things might be true.

That’s what makes boundaries difficult.

Sometimes saying no doesn’t mean the opportunity was wrong.

It just means the timing was wrong.

I probably could have done it.

I probably would have enjoyed it.

I probably would have been happy afterward that I pushed myself.

But those aren’t the only questions that matter anymore.

I have to ask what the yes would have cost me.

Maybe saying no is a skill.

I’m starting to think boundaries require practice.

You don’t wait until the massive, emotionally charged situation to suddenly become someone who confidently holds her ground.

Maybe you practice on the smaller things.

You say no when the stakes aren’t enormous.

You experience the discomfort.

You realize the world keeps spinning.

And then you do it again.

Until eventually you trust yourself enough to hold the bigger boundaries too.

That’s what this felt like.

Practice.

There have been plenty of “year of yes” movements over the years.

Maybe I’m entering my season of no.

Not no to everything.

Not no because I’m scared.

Not no because I’ve stopped caring about my career or leadership or the things I enjoyed before becoming a mother.

I’m saying no because I finally know what I’m saying yes to instead.

My kids.

My marriage.

My health.

My sleep.

My breastfeeding journey.

My writing.

My goals.

My capacity.

The particular life I’m trying to build right now.

This isn’t forever.

That’s another thing motherhood has taught me.

Everything is a season.

There will be another leadership event.

There will be another stage.

There will be another reason to put on professional clothes, do my hair, network with people and step into that part of myself again.

Maybe someday I’ll even stand on a stage and talk about boundaries.

And if I do, I’ll actually have something to say.

Because I practiced them first.

Right now, saying no doesn’t mean I’m giving up the person I was before kids.

It means I’m giving the person I am right now permission to have different priorities.

And maybe that’s what taking control of your life actually looks like.

Not having control over everything.

But being willing to say:

This matters to me right now.

That doesn’t.

So this time, the answer is no.

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I’ve been thinking a lot lately about friendships that change after motherhood.

Not necessarily friendships that end with some huge falling out.

Not friendships where someone did something so objectively horrible that everyone would immediately tell you to cut them off.

I’m talking about the harder ones.

The relationships with people who have been good to you.

People who have shown up for you.

People who genuinely believe they love you and are helping you.

And yet, somehow, every interaction starts leaving you feeling more irritated, indebted, defensive, or exhausted than supported.

That’s the kind of friendship I’ve been trying to make sense of lately.

And for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call this friend Kate.

Kate was genuinely there for me during a season when I needed her.

That’s what makes this complicated.

Kate came into my life when I was much younger, and she was a little further ahead in life than I was. At the time, I genuinely valued that.

She had more life experience. She had children before I did. She had been through things I hadn’t yet experienced.

And there were absolutely seasons when she helped me.

I went to her for advice. I talked to her about things happening in my family. She and her husband showed up for us during stressful situations. There are things they did for us that I am still grateful for.

But looking back, I also think I created a dynamic very early on that eventually stopped working for me.

She was the mentor.

I was the person being mentored.

And somewhere along the way, I grew up.

But I don’t think the relationship ever did.

Motherhood made that painfully obvious.

Before having kids, unsolicited advice was easier for me to brush off.

I could nod. Smile. Say, “Oh yeah, totally.”

I’m actually willing to admit that in my younger years, I probably manufactured a little more respect for certain advice than I actually felt.

Not because I was being malicious.

I just didn’t care enough to push back.

Then I became a mother.

And suddenly, I cared.

There were decisions I had already made about how I wanted to parent. There were things Kate did that I knew I wouldn’t do. Not because one of us was right and the other was wrong—we were simply different.

Different personalities.

Different priorities.

Different approaches to motherhood.

Different lives.

And that should have been fine.

Except I started realizing that when I expressed that I didn’t want something, the answer wasn’t always accepted.

It was negotiated.

I started noticing it with “help.”

There was one situation while I was pregnant where my husband and I were going through a major life transition.

We had plenty of help.

Actually, we had almost an absurd amount of help.

My parents were there. Friends were there. Everything was handled.

Kate offered to come.

I told her, genuinely, that we were good.

She came anyway.

And I remember being struck by something that sounds so small when I write it:

I said I didn’t need help, and somehow I still ended up having to accommodate someone else’s desire to help me.

She kept asking what she could do.

Everything was basically done.

Eventually, I found something for her to do because I felt uncomfortable that she had come all that way and wasn’t needed.

Which is kind of funny when you think about it.

I was the pregnant one going through a major transition, and somehow I was managing her feelings about being useful.

At the time, I didn’t have language for why that bothered me.

Now I think I do.

Sometimes help stops feeling like help when the person receiving it has already said no.

Then I had a baby.

And this is where I started feeling the friendship change.

After having my first child, I didn’t want people around immediately.

I wasn’t trying to be difficult.

I wasn’t rejecting my “village.”

I had support.

My parents were with us. My husband was there. I was bleeding, breastfeeding, exhausted, emotional and trying to figure out how to keep a brand-new human alive.

I didn’t need more people.

I needed fewer.

Kate really wanted to come over.

I tried gently communicating that I wasn’t ready and had more than enough help.

Eventually, she came anyway.

And I can still remember standing there with my crying newborn while suggestions immediately started coming.

Maybe this was wrong.

Maybe that was bothering the baby.

Maybe I should try this.

And I remember thinking:

I didn’t even want company right now.

Now I’m standing in my own house, freshly postpartum, listening to someone critique the environment while I’m trying to settle my baby.

Was she trying to criticize me?

Probably not.

I genuinely believe she thought she was helping.

But that’s part of what I’ve been wrestling with.

Does someone’s intention automatically determine the impact they have on you?

I don’t think it does.

There is so much conversation about mothers “rejecting their village.”

You’ve probably heard some version of it.

Everyone says they want a village until the village actually shows up.

And maybe sometimes that’s true.

But I think there’s another side we don’t talk about enough.

Sometimes the village shows up when you specifically asked it not to.

Sometimes the village wants to hold your baby when what you actually need is someone to fold laundry.

Sometimes the village drops off things you don’t want, gives advice you didn’t ask for, creates more work in your home and then walks away feeling good about how much they “helped.”

Sometimes people offer the help they want to give instead of the help you actually need.

And those are not always the same thing.

I started noticing this pattern everywhere once I became a mom.

People desperately wanted to help when it was convenient, exciting or made them feel involved.

But when I actually needed help?

Sometimes it was different.

And yes, I realize how ungrateful that can sound.

That’s exactly why this has taken me so long to unpack.

Because Kate has helped me.

There have been legitimate emergencies when she showed up.

There were situations before I had children when I needed someone and she was there.

There were moments when I genuinely appreciated having her nearby.

And because of those things, I think I developed this weird sense of indebtedness.

She helped me then, therefore I should let her help me now.

She did this for me, therefore I shouldn’t be irritated by that.

She’s a good person, therefore I’m wrong for wanting distance.

But two things can be true.

Someone can have been incredibly helpful during one season of your life…

and no longer be the person you need in your inner circle during another.

Gratitude does not require permanent access.

That’s something I’m only recently learning.

The biggest shift came when I stopped needing a mentor and started needing a friend.

I think that’s really what happened between us.

I grew up.

I became more confident.

I became a mother.

I learned how I wanted to run my home and raise my children.

I became more comfortable making decisions without asking everyone around me whether they approved.

And suddenly, a relationship built partly around someone advising me didn’t have the same place to go.

My husband actually pointed something out that changed how I looked at the entire situation.

Maybe giving advice is how she feels valuable in our relationship.

Maybe that’s what she believes she has to offer me.

And strangely, that thought made me more compassionate toward her.

Because I don’t think she’s sitting around plotting ways to undermine me.

I think she genuinely believes she’s helping.

The problem is…

I don’t need another mother.

I have one.

What I could use is a friend.

Someone I can tell, “The kids were sick this week,” without immediately hearing where they probably caught it.

Someone I can vent to without receiving a five-step action plan.

Someone who can hear me say, “No thanks, we’re good,” and believe me.

Someone who doesn’t need me to need her in order for our friendship to have value.

And maybe that’s why I’ve chosen distance instead of confrontation.

I’ve been reading a lot about boundaries lately, and one thing I’m starting to understand is that boundaries don’t always require a dramatic conversation.

Sometimes a boundary is simply access.

I don’t tell Kate as much anymore.

I don’t ask her opinion about things I’ve already decided.

I don’t call her when I’m overwhelmed.

I don’t automatically say yes when she offers something I don’t need.

I’ve created distance.

And strangely, I think that’s actually preserved whatever friendship we still have.

Because when I was constantly allowing access I didn’t really want, resentment was building.

Distance has allowed me to appreciate the good parts of our relationship without constantly putting myself in situations where I leave frustrated.

Maybe that’s not cruel.

Maybe that’s just adulthood.

I also think motherhood changes what we need from people.

Before kids, I thought a helpful person was someone who was always offering.

Now?

I think one of the most helpful things someone can do is listen.

Ask.

And then believe the answer.

“Do you want company?”

No.

“Okay. I’m here when you do.”

“Can I bring you dinner?”

Yes.

“Great. What night would actually be helpful?”

“Do you want advice or do you just need to vent?”

I JUST NEED TO VENT.

Perfect.

That is a village too.

Actually, for some mothers, that might be the best kind.

So maybe this isn’t actually an article about Kate.

Maybe it’s about relationships that worked for an older version of us.

The friend you loved before motherhood.

The sister you used to tell everything.

The mother-in-law whose involvement didn’t bother you until you had your own baby.

The coworker who still talks to you like you’re 25.

The person who helped you through one chapter and assumes that means they automatically belong in every chapter afterward.

I don’t think every relationship like this needs to end.

I don’t even necessarily think someone has to be “toxic” for you to need distance from them.

Maybe that’s the part I’ve been getting wrong.

I kept trying to decide whether Kate had done enough wrong to justify how I felt.

But maybe that’s not the question.

Maybe the question is simply:

Does this relationship still work in its current form?

And if the answer is no, maybe you’re allowed to change the form.

You can love someone and tell them less.

You can appreciate what someone did for you five years ago without owing them unlimited access to you today.

You can be grateful for the village and still decide who gets to walk through your front door.

And you can recognize that someone genuinely means well while also admitting that their version of “help” doesn’t actually feel helpful to you.

I’m still figuring out what this friendship looks like now.

But I’m curious if motherhood has done this for anyone else.

Did you have a relationship that suddenly felt different once you became a mom?

A friendship?

Your mom?

Your sister?

Your in-laws?

And did you have some giant confrontation about it—or did you do what I’ve done and quietly start creating distance?

Because I’m starting to think one of the strangest parts of growing up isn’t losing relationships.

It’s realizing some relationships aren’t bad enough to end…

they just don’t fit the same way anymore.

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“Wow. She really let herself go.”

We’ve all heard it.

Maybe after someone gets married. Maybe after she had kids. Maybe after she becomes a stay-at-home mom and slowly stops doing her hair, stops getting dressed up, gains some weight, and starts looking a little different than the woman she was before.

And I know people say it because…

I’ve said it.

There were women in my life who had babies and never lost the weight. Women who stopped getting themselves ready. Women who really leaned into the whole staying at home part of being a stay-at-home-mom.

And in my early 20s, before marriage and babies and breastfeeding and postpartum hormones and toddlers and 4 a.m. wake-ups, I remember thinking:

Absolutely not. That will not be me.

Which is actually kind of funny now.

Because I think I have, in fact, let myself go.

Just maybe not in the way I thought.

I grew up with a very specific idea of what a mom looked like

Growing up, I remember thinking my mom was the prettiest mom out of all my friends’ moms.

Actually, I thought both of my parents were the coolest parents.

Even now, the friends we grew up with through elementary school, high school, and some into college still talk about how our house had the best snacks and how cool my parents were.

Which is funny because looking back?

My parents were actually pretty strict.

Not just with us. With themselves, too.

I vividly remember being annoyed because my parents would go to the gym after work, meaning my sister and I would be some of the last kids picked up from after-school childcare.

They ran in races around the neighborhood.

They stayed active.

They took care of themselves.

My mom was always in great shape, and I remember thinking she was so pretty.

So somewhere along the way, I think I internalized this idea that this was how I would do motherhood too.

I would have the babies.

I would stay active.

I would eat healthy.

I would lose the weight.

I would still look like myself.

Simple.

LOL.

Then I actually had the babies

I gained about 45 pounds during my first pregnancy.

Then more than 50 with my second.

And I was SHOCKED.

I genuinely thought I was going to be one of those women who gained 25 or 30 pounds during pregnancy.

I ate pretty healthy. I exercised throughout my pregnancies. I stayed active.

Sure, were there more than a few sweets involved?

Absolutely.

But overall, I felt like I was doing everything “right.”

My babies apparently did too, considering they were both in the 90-something percentiles.

Still, gaining that much weight meant there was a lot left for me to deal with postpartum.

And because I decided to have two babies under two, I never really got back to my pre-baby body between pregnancies.

I breastfed my daughter right into the first trimester of my pregnancy with my son.

Then I had another baby.

Then I started breastfeeding again.

And suddenly it’s now been years where my body basically belonged to pregnancy, breastfeeding, or both.

So yes.

I have struggled with my body image.

Things haven’t exactly snapped back into place the way 22-year-old me apparently assumed they would.

And my beauty routine?

Well…

I washed my hair this week and never even brushed it.

I just threw it into a high bun.

I wore that bun for several days, washed my hair again, once again did not brush it, and put it right back into a bun.

So there’s that.

I do shower at least once or twice a day, mostly because between breastfeeding, spit-up, toddlers, and whatever mysterious substances end up on me, it’s basically required.

And I still shave my legs every single day because I have a weird thing about feeling hair on my legs. I cannot stand it.

But makeup every time I leave the house?

Absolutely not.

Hair done?

Clearly not.

Pre-baby body?

Also no.

And lately, I’ve caught myself looking at all of that and thinking:

Oh my God. Did I let myself go?

Maybe I did

This morning I started going down that rabbit hole again.

Maybe I need to get more serious.

Maybe I should eat something with protein before my coffee.

Maybe I need to watch my calories more.

Maybe I need a better workout routine.

Maybe I need to get back into running.

Maybe I need to start doing my hair.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

And I’ve been really intentional lately about catching myself when I start doing this.

Because I know where it goes.

So I stopped.

And I thought:

Wait.

You know what?

Yes. You have let yourself go.

You’ve let yourself go of perfectionism.

You’ve let yourself go of unrealistic expectations.

You’ve let yourself go of constantly worrying about what other people think.

You’ve let yourself go of rehearsing future conversations in your head that haven’t even happened.

You’ve let yourself go of someone else’s definition of success.

You’ve let yourself go of feeling guilty for needing sleep.

You’ve let yourself go of thinking you need to attend every event just because someone expects you to.

You’ve let yourself go of people-pleasing.

You’ve let yourself go of feeling guilty for setting boundaries.

You’ve let yourself go of trying to make everyone else comfortable at your own expense.

And damn.

Maybe I really have let myself go.

There are things I simply don’t feel bad about anymore

I don’t feel bad about getting extra sleep when I need it.

I don’t feel bad when my husband gets home and hangs out with the kids while I sign back onto work.

Actually, that arrangement works really well for us.

I get to spend my days with my kids. I can rest during the day if I need to. I can take them outside. I can go on walks. I can structure my life around being present with them.

And if that means I sign onto work at night?

Fine.

That’s part of how I’ve created the life I want.

I’ve let go of feeling like my schedule needs to make sense to everyone else.

I’ve let go of feeling guilty when I don’t attend something.

I’ve let go of believing that setting a boundary makes me difficult.

I’ve let go of needing everyone to understand my decisions.

I’ve let go of trying to please people who probably weren’t going to be pleased anyway.

And motherhood has probably been the biggest catalyst for all of it.

Because I simply don’t have the capacity anymore to be someone I’m not.

Maybe “letting yourself go” isn’t always a bad thing

I still want to lose the baby weight.

I still want to feel stronger.

I still want to get back into running.

I still want to look in the mirror and recognize more of the physical version of myself that existed before pregnancy.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting those things.

Taking care of myself physically matters to me.

But I don’t want her back badly enough to take back everything else that came with her.

Because the woman who was thinner also worried a lot more about what everyone thought.

She held herself to ridiculous standards.

She overthought things.

She wanted to make everyone happy.

She felt guilty saying no.

She thought she could somehow perfectly balance a career, marriage, motherhood, friendships, family obligations, fitness, a social life, a clean house, and looking put together while doing all of it.

Motherhood has slowly forced me to drop some of that weight too.

And honestly?

That might be the most important weight I’ve lost.

So yes.

Maybe after marriage and two babies and breastfeeding and working from home and spending most days chasing a toddler while carrying a baby…

I let myself go.

I let go of perfectionism.

I let go of people-pleasing.

I let go of guilt.

I let go of pretending.

I let go of the version of motherhood I created before I ever actually became a mother.

And somewhere underneath all of that, I think I’m becoming much more myself.

Even if she currently has unbrushed hair in a bun.

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I feel like we’re doing this again.

Another article where I’m asking all of you the same question:

Am I overreacting?

Before I start, I do want to give a quick heads up that this article talks about fears surrounding child sexual abuse. Nothing graphic, but if that’s something that’s personal or triggering for you, I completely understand if you skip this one.

I’ve been really open about the fact that postpartum anxiety hit me harder than I ever expected.

I’ve also talked about postpartum rage.

I’ve gone to therapy.

I’ve questioned myself.

I’ve questioned whether I’m seeing real problems or creating them in my own head.

But there’s something that’s always stood out to me.

Every single one of these thoughts has revolved around my daughter.

Not my son.

My daughter.

She’s two now. My son is seven months old. We survived two under two (I still haven’t decided if that was my best idea), but even though he’s the baby now, I don’t find myself spiraling about him the way I always have with her.

I don’t know if it’s because she’s my first baby.

I don’t know if it’s because she’s a girl.

I don’t know if it’s postpartum anxiety.

Or if this is just what becoming a mom does to your brain.

It actually started when she was about six months old.

One day I dropped her off at the gym childcare like I had many times before.

When I came back, she was the only child left.

There were three young male employees with her.

Nothing looked wrong.

Nobody acted suspicious.

But when they handed her back to me, I got home and realized her diaper had been changed.

Nobody had mentioned it.

Something about that sent me into a complete spiral.

I immediately called our pediatrician asking what signs of sexual abuse even looked like because I genuinely had no idea.

They told me to bring her in.

The pediatrician was incredibly reassuring.

She tried to calm me down.

Nothing about the situation suggested something had happened.

But I couldn’t let go of the guilt.

Not because I thought those particular employees had done something.

Because I felt like I had put my daughter in a situation where, if something ever did happen, it would be my fault.

That feeling consumed me.

I ended up switching gyms.

I started therapy.

I remember even asking my mom if there was anything from my childhood I didn’t know about.

Had I blocked something out?

Why was I reacting this strongly?

As far as I know…

Nothing ever happened to me.

I’ve never experienced sexual abuse.

I’ve never had some traumatic event that explains why my brain immediately goes there.

Which almost makes it more confusing.

A mentor I really respect told me something I’ll never forget.

She said I was letting fear control me.

She encouraged me to pray Psalm 91 over my family.

I actually agree with her.

I do pray.

I trust God.

But if I’m being honest…

There’s still a part of me that believes it’s my job as their mom to avoid putting them in situations that make me uncomfortable in the first place.

Maybe that’s faith.

Maybe that’s fear.

Maybe it’s both.

Fast forward to today.

I’ve been touring preschools.

Partly because I wanted reassurance that keeping my daughter home was still the right decision.

Partly because I wanted to stay open-minded if she absolutely fell in love with one.

The schools have honestly been impressive.

The teachers seem wonderful.

The classrooms are beautiful.

And yet…

At every single tour, I found myself scanning the room.

Who works here?

Who changes diapers?

Who helps kids in the bathroom?

Who might end up alone with my daughter?

I caught myself paying attention to things I never would have noticed before becoming a mom.

That’s when I realized this isn’t really about one gym daycare anymore.

It’s about how motherhood changed the way my brain evaluates risk.

Some people would probably say that’s healthy.

Others would say it’s anxiety.

I genuinely don’t know.

I don’t want to parent from fear.

I also don’t want to ignore my instincts because I’m worried people will call me paranoid.

I’d rather people think I’m overly cautious than spend the rest of my life wishing I’d listened to my gut.

Maybe that’s irrational.

Maybe that’s motherhood.

Maybe those two things overlap more than we like to admit.

So I’m asking again.

Am I overreacting?

Have any of you felt this way?

Was it postpartum anxiety?

Did it get better?

Is this a girl mom thing?

Or is this simply what happens when someone hands you the responsibility of protecting the most important person in your world?

Because honestly…

I still don’t know the answer.

I just know I’m trying really hard to find the line between living in fear and being appropriately cautious.

And right now, I’m not always sure where that line is.

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My Husband Called My Career a Side Hustle

A couple years ago, those words would’ve sent me into a feminist spiral.

“Excuse me? A side hustle? I’ve spent ten years building this career.”

I would’ve been offended.

Honestly, I probably would’ve written an entire article about why women deserve to have their careers taken seriously.

Now?

When my husband said those exact words a few weeks ago…

It felt like someone took a hundred-pound backpack off my shoulders.

That surprised me more than anything.

Because if you had met me in my early twenties, you would’ve laughed if someone told you I’d eventually say that.

I was the definition of a corporate girl.

I graduated college, skipped graduate school while most of my friends were heading off to their master’s programs, and couldn’t wait to start working. I didn’t have kids. I didn’t even have a pet fish. I had nothing competing for my attention except my career.

And I loved it.

Within a couple of years, I had worked my way into a demanding project management role that had me traveling five days a week. I was working alongside executives, directors, and clients from companies like Google and Uber. My direct report was a vice president at a Fortune 500 company.

I was twenty-three years old, sitting in rooms with people the same age as my friends’ parents.

Those memes that say, “I wake up every day knowing I’m competing with your dad”?

That was me.

People told me I was going to make it big.

And for a while…

I believed them.

Until I started seeing the side of corporate America nobody talks about.

The late-night dinners.

The heavy drinking.

The “work hard, play hard” culture.

One night, after everyone had gone out drinking, I did what I always did. I slipped out early without saying goodbye and went back to my hotel room.

Around 2:00 a.m., my phone buzzed.

“You up?”

It was one of the higher ups on the project.

A married man.

A father.

I remember staring at my phone.

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t answer.

Then I spent half the night wondering if I should.

Not because I wanted to.

Because I was scared.

Would ignoring him affect my career?

Would I make things awkward?

The next morning I acted like I had simply gone to bed early.

“Sorry, I missed your text. See you at the morning meeting.”

And we never spoke about it again.

But something changed in me after that.

It wasn’t dramatic.

I didn’t quit that day.

I just remember thinking…

Is this really the game I’m trying so hard to win?

A few months later, my boss actually called me and asked if everything was okay.

He could tell something had shifted.

He was right.

So I pivoted.

I left the constant travel behind and took a traditional 9-to-5 desk job.

Ironically, I absolutely crushed it.

After coming from an environment where nobody held your hand and you simply figured it out, a structured office job felt easy.

I was running circles around people.

Then COVID happened.

Like so many people, I started working from home.

And I discovered something about myself.

If nobody interrupted me…

If I wasn’t sitting through unnecessary meetings…

If I wasn’t constantly chatting with coworkers…

I could do eight hours of work in about two and a half.

Seriously. Not over exaggerating.

Even now, that still shocks people.

Then I became a mom.

And if I’m being honest…

I assumed I’d do exactly what my mom did.

She worked a 9-5 and I turned out fine.

My kids would go to daycare like I did.

I’d continue climbing the ladder.

Simple.

Except it wasn’t.

Postpartum anxiety hit me harder than I ever expected.

Leaving my daughter felt physically impossible. Debilitating at times.

I’d leave the house and immediately wonder if something terrible had happened. I couldn’t stop checking the Blink cameras.

Once, watching the camera, I saw our babysitter singing to my four-month-old and my brain went somewhere completely irrational thinking she was putting a witch hex on my baby. I wish I were joking. That’s the kind of thing postpartum anxiety does. It takes something totally normal and convinces you it’s a threat.

My husband constantly reminded me that not everyone was trying to hurt our baby.

I knew he was right.

It didn’t matter.

That’s what anxiety does.

So we adjusted.

Instead of daycare, I figured out how to keep working while keeping my daughter home.

Now we have two under two.

I’m still working full-time.

Still getting promotions.

Still contributing significantly to our household income.

But my life doesn’t look anything like it used to.

Some days I’m taking a client call while my baby is crying in the other room.

Some days someone I’ve never met could be yelling at me over the phone while I’m trying not to think about the fact that my son is also yelling because he wants me.

Some days my husband walks into a house with dishes in the sink, unfolded laundry, and toys everywhere.

And I’ll immediately think…

“I’m failing.”

Then I compare myself to other moms.

You know the ones.

The wives who seem to have everything perfectly managed at home while their husbands build their careers and businesses.

I compare myself to stay at home moms. But even though I’m physically home like them, we are not running the same race.

I found myself venting to my husband about one couple in particular.

I said, “I feel like I’m not doing enough.”

I expected him to reassure me.

Instead, he completely changed my perspective.

He said,

“I want you to treat your job like a side hustle.”

Two years ago?

I would’ve been furious.

Today…

I finally heard what he actually meant.

He wasn’t saying my career didn’t matter.

He wasn’t saying all the years I’d spent building it didn’t count.

He was saying…

“I know how ambitious you are. I know you need something outside of being Mom. But if your career is making you feel like you’re failing at everything else, I don’t want that for you. I want you to be happy. We’ll figure the rest out.”

That changed everything.

Maybe that’s why that meme keeps making me laugh lately: “If you want to turn your career into a hobby, have a kid.” I don’t think motherhood made my career less important. It just stopped being the main character in my life.

Because somewhere along the way…

My priorities changed.

Not because someone told me they should.

Because motherhood changed me.

The version of me at twenty-three would’ve thought becoming “just a mom” sounded like giving up.

The version of me at thirty-three knows there is absolutely nothing “just” about it.

Ironically, motherhood hasn’t made me less ambitious.

It’s made me more intentional.

It taught me to stop chasing things simply because they looked impressive.

It taught me to ask…

“Do I actually want this?”

I’ve passed on leadership opportunities.

Not because I couldn’t do them.

Because I don’t want what comes with them right now.

That’s different.

I’m done wasting energy trying to live someone else’s version of success.

I’ve spent enough of my life proving I can do hard things.

I’ve done it over and over.

When I was a competitive cheerleader, I wanted to be a flyer.

People thought I was too tall.

I made it happen.

I wanted to be captain of my high-school cheer team.

On paper, others had better grades and better skills. Yet, I made it happen.

I pointed at the biggest sorority house on campus before I’d even been accepted into college and told my parents, “That’s the sorority I want to be in.”

It happened. My mom still tells that story today.

My career? Same story.

If I wanted something badly enough, I figured it out. I made it happen.

That’s still who I am.

The difference is…

Today, the thing I want most isn’t another title.

It’s this.

Slow mornings.

Lunch with my toddlers.

Being the one who hears their funny little conversations.

Working enough to contribute to our family.

Maybe homeschooling one day.

Maybe not.

We’ll see.

I still believe I can do it all.

I have that written on a sticky note on my computer. “I can do it all and have it all, therefore, I do.”

But I’ve realized something.

Having it all doesn’t mean doing everything.

It means being honest about what “all” actually looks like for this season.

Right now…

My career isn’t the center of my identity anymore.

And strangely enough…

Treating it like a side hustle might be the very thing that allows me to excel at it.

Because every time I’ve stopped trying to prove myself…

I’ve somehow performed even better.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Motherhood didn’t make me less ambitious.

It simply gave my ambition somewhere else to go.

Comment

I just found out a friend of ours discovered her husband had been having an affair… multiple affairs.

They have two little kids.

She’s pregnant with their third.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.

Not just because of what happened.

Because there was a time I was jealous of her life.

Our daughters were born one day apart. We were pregnant together. We navigated new motherhood at the same time.

Then something happened that I desperately wanted for myself.

She was able to leave her corporate job and become a stay-at-home mom because her husband’s career could support their family.

I remember venting to my own husband.

“Why can’t that be us?”

From the outside, they looked like they had everything figured out.

Beautiful family vacations.

The elaborate birthday surprises.

The adorable birthday parties.

The tropical babymoon.

The middle of the day workout classes.

The stay-at-home mom life.

If you had asked me a month ago which marriage I admired, theirs probably would’ve been on the list.

And that’s what I can’t stop thinking about.

Because social media only lets us compare our behind-the-scenes to someone else’s carefully curated moments.

A few years ago, Instagram became surprisingly unhealthy for me after I had my daughter.

It convinced me everyone else bounced back faster.

Everyone else’s baby slept through the night.

Everyone else instantly fell head over heels in love with motherhood while I was just trying to survive.

Even when some of the advice I consumed was helpful, it quietly convinced me I was the exception.

The struggling one.

The one who couldn’t quite keep up.

Looking back, I realize how little we actually know about other people’s lives.

The family I envied was carrying burdens I never would’ve guessed.

Meanwhile, I was overlooking the blessings sitting right in front of me because they didn’t look the way I imagined they should.

Today, I still work full time.

I still wish, sometimes, that I didn’t have to work and rather just be full time with my kids.

I still wrestle with the tension of wanting to build a career while knowing my babies will only be little once.

Some days I feel like I’m doing so much but none of it well.

But I also get to be home with them.

I get bedtime.

Morning cuddles.

Lunch breaks together.

I contribute to our family’s income while still watching them grow up.

It’s messy.

It’s exhausting.

It’s not the picture I thought I’d have.

But it’s mine.

And after hearing what happened, I found myself appreciating my own husband in a way I hadn’t before.

Is he perfect?

Absolutely not.

Am I easy to live with?

Ask him after I’ve been pregnant.

If you’re someone who prays, you might want to send one up for him too.

Because pregnancy and postpartum me can be… intense.

I joke, but I also know this:

Marriage isn’t built on Instagram posts.

It isn’t measured by tropical vacations, birthday surprises, or perfectly coordinated family pictures.

The strongest marriages are usually doing a thousand ordinary, faithful things that never make it online.

My heart breaks for my friend.

I can’t imagine navigating this while pregnant, caring for two little kids, and trying to figure out what tomorrow looks like.

It also reminded me of something I hope I never forget.

The life you’re quietly envying may be carrying a burden you’d never choose for yourself.

Comparison is the thief of joy. It has a way of making us blind to the gifts we already have.

Sometimes the life we think we want isn’t the life we’d actually trade for.

Comment

The baby didn’t wake up! He slept all the way through the night. 😅

I’m so proud of him. And honestly? I’m pretty proud of my husband too for sticking with sleep training the last two nights. If it were up to me, we’d probably still be waking every four hours.

5:50 AM — I finish pumping, pour my coffee, and sit down with my devotional.

6:00 AM — The baby starts to stir. You know that stage where they’re not really awake yet… just stretching, rolling around, making those little sleepy noises. Ugh music to my ears.

6:00 AM — My husband heads to the gym while I finish a little reading.

6:30 AM — I actually wake the baby. I never thought I’d be saying those words the last 7 months.

6:45 AM — Time to get my toddler. Her sleepy little eyes and wild bedhead might be one of my favorite parts of the morning.

We all eat breakfast together, go through our normal morning routine, and head outside to walk the dog.

7:00 AM - We pass my husband’s car as we’re leaving. He’s getting home from the gym while we’re just starting our walk. My daughter gets so excited to see “Dada’s zoom zoom”

We squeeze in a little playtime before he leaves.

8:00 AM Back inside, I get a quick workout in while the kids hang out nearby, and we watch a little preschool counting show. My two-year-old is starting to count to ten, and I honestly can’t believe I birthed a genius.

8:30 AM — Like clockwork, the baby goes down for his nap.

9:00 AM - My daughter “clocks in” to work with me, and we get a little work done together.

10:00 AM — The baby wakes up, and all three of us head to the park. My daughter rides her bike while the baby and I walk with the stroller.

The weather is perfect—high 60s, low 70s. It almost feels like fall.

I meet another mom who lives in a nearby neighborhood. We exchange numbers while the kids play.

12:00 PM — Back home for lunch before naps.

12:30 PM — Everyone is down for their naps.

I finish up a few work phone calls, and surprisingly, it turns into a bit of a slow, quiet afternoon. The kind I don’t take for granted.

2:00 PM - I lay down, ready to take a little snooze myself… but not before I write out this timestamp article.

And the truth is…

This morning wasn’t actually perfect.

There was a meltdown over putting on shoes. The baby was a little fussy after his nap.

But once we were all outside in the stroller, everyone settled. We laughed. We played. We breathed.

It’s mornings like this that remind me that maybe… just maybe… I’m doing something right.

Not every day feels this peaceful.

But today did.

And now that I’m finally sleeping for more than a couple of hours at a time…

I’m officially ready for baby #3. 🥰

My husband thinks I’ve completely lost my mind. 🤪

Well friends... here we go with our second Motherhood Mailbox in-law submission.

And let me just say: you may want to grab your popcorn for this one.

When I first started sharing stories about in-laws, I expected a few awkward holiday memories and maybe some boundary issues. What I did not expect was the number of messages that made me feel like I was accidentally reading the script for a reality TV show.

This submission had me laughing, cringing, and repeatedly putting my phone down to process what I had just read.

As always, the goal here isn’t to villainize anyone or determine who’s right and who’s wrong. Families are complicated. Relationships are complicated. And every story has multiple sides.

But sometimes it helps just to say the quiet parts out loud.

Today’s writer wanted to remain anonymous, and after reading her story... I completely understand why.

Let’s meet Cindy and Frank.

My Thoughts

Okay.

I thought my father-in-law was difficult.

Then I met Frank.

And Frank might take the cake.

The inheritance phone call was wild, but the Thanksgiving story is the one that stuck with me. Not because of the yelling itself, but because of your husband crying all the way home. Sometimes these stories aren’t really about one bad moment—they’re about years of hurt finally catching up with someone.

And Cindy?

Let’s just say she sounds like the last person I’d want around during the postpartum stage. The comments, comparisons, guilt trips, and grandparent competition would be exhausting for anyone, let alone a new mom.

What stood out to me most is something I’ve noticed from almost every submission so far: the biggest issues are rarely one giant event. They’re hundreds of little moments that slowly pile up over the years until you can’t ignore them anymore.

Let’s Talk

So what do you think?

Who’s worse: Cindy or Frank?

And if you’ve dealt with a Cindy or Frank in your own family, what helped?

Leave a comment below. I’m sure today’s writer would love to hear from anyone who’s survived a similar situation—or is still trying to figure it out.

Leave a comment

Want to share your own story?

This series only exists because readers are willing to share.

If you’d like your story featured anonymously, send me your in-law experience.

There’s a good chance another mom is waiting to read the exact story you’re afraid to tell.

And honestly?

After everything that’s happened… I still believe that.

As a work-from-home mom of two under two, I spend all day talking to virtual coworkers, my toddler, my baby, and my dog. I do a lot all day long, but it’s surprisingly isolating. I didn’t realize how badly I needed an outlet until I started Substack.

Instagram had started making me feel… not great.

Maybe it wasn’t intentional, but somewhere along the way it became endless perfectly curated motherhood. Beautiful homes. Beautiful postpartum bodies. Beautiful family photos. Even when they weren’t AI-generated, they felt staged. Edited. Polished.

Meanwhile I was sitting in yesterday’s leggings, trying to answer work calls while breastfeeding my newborn and convincing my toddler that crayons are, in fact, not a snack.

Substack felt different.

Not because everyone has it together less—but because people actually tell stories.

Real stories.

Stories about marriages, postpartum anxiety, in-laws, work, loneliness, boundaries, and motherhood in all the messy parts no one really posts anywhere else.

And somewhere along the way, I realized those stories were helping me too.

Lately I’ve written a lot about my in-laws and learning boundaries as a new mom. If you’ve been reading for a while, you know I’ve struggled with sticking up for myself and feeling like I constantly second-guess myself.

Ironically, before becoming a mom, I was pretty bold. Borderline confrontational, honestly.

Then motherhood happened.

Suddenly I started worrying what everyone thought. I questioned myself constantly. I let outside opinions carry way more weight than they deserved. I think mostly because this is all so new for me I didn’t want to make a mistake.

But reading your comments…

Something shifted.

So many of you reminded me that it’s okay to trust my instincts. It’s okay to protect my peace. It’s okay to become the mama bear my kids deserve to have.

I genuinely don’t think you all realize how much your words have helped me.

So thank you.

Then came my article about using AI. Yes, I Use AI to Write My Substack.

I was honestly blown away by the response.

Almost a thousand people have read it in just 48 hours. A lot of you have shared your thoughts. Most were incredibly supportive, and even the people who disagreed did so respectfully.

That’s exactly why I joined Substack.

I don’t expect everyone to agree with me. I actually want to hear different perspectives.

Most of my response comments start the same way:

“I appreciate your perspective…”

Because I really do.

Sometimes people change my mind.

Sometimes they strengthen what I already believed.

Either way, that’s the point.

But one interaction caught me off guard.

Someone disagreed with me, restacked my article with her own commentary, I responded… and then she blocked me.

She continued restacking my notes and discussing them with her readers, but because I was blocked, I couldn’t even see what was being said.

It honestly stung.

Not because someone disagreed with me.

Because someone with four times the subscriber count I have was using my content to mock me, a semi-newbie to this whole substack thing, for sharing with my subscribers to build trust by letting them know this may be AI-assisted, but it’s still my story.

It reminded me of finding out the popular girls started a group text about you and you’re the only one who can’t see it.

It just felt… kind of shady.

That night my husband came home and I was actually excited to show him how proud I was of my response. I’d been telling him how much all of your encouragement had helped me become more confident about standing up for myself.

He is very into working out and used the analogy of ““Just because someone doesn’t like the process of going to the gym and sweating, does that mean they don’t deserve to be in shape?”

I totally agreed and tried to pull up the disagreeing comment...

And it was gone.

That’s when I realized I hadn’t been deleted.

I’d been blocked.

For a minute, my feelings were hurt. I felt like I had done something wrong by responding.

Then I thought…

Why am I letting one stranger outweigh hundreds of moms who have encouraged me over the last few months?

I’m not.

Here’s the reality.

Yes, I’m writing this article by talking into my phone.

Yes, it’s being organized with AI.

Every single prompt starts the exact same way:

“Here’s my brain dump…”

Because if you’ve ever listened to me talk, you know I can ramble for twenty minutes before I get to the point. Sometimes our conversation gets a little heated and so a lot of times my AI responds with “Let’s soften this up a bit...”

I tell AI what I’m trying to say, what I’m trying to communicate, and then I ask it to organize my thoughts into something people can actually read.

Not because it has my experiences.

Because I do.

I’m still the one living this life.

I’m still the one waking up with two kids under two.

I’m still the one working full-time.

I’m still the one deciding what I believe, what I write, and what I publish.

AI just helps organize the chaos between my ears.

And honestly?

I’m not going to apologize for using a tool that gives me more time with my kids.

If you’re a writer who genuinely loves the writing process, I applaud you.

I really do.

For some people, writing is therapeutic.

For me?

Talking is therapeutic. And getting my voice out there to connect with other moms has been incredibly healing for me in this postpartum journey.

Writing would just be one more thing on my to-do list.

So no, one person blocking and disagreeing with me isn’t going to scare me away from Substack.

If anything, I think she accidentally introduced my work to even more people.

I’ve gained subscribers over the last few days.

I’ve had incredible conversations.

I’ve connected with moms I never would’ve met otherwise.

So if anything, this week reminded me exactly why I started writing here in the first place.

Substack isn’t perfect.

Neither am I.

But despite all of that…

I still think it’s the best-kept secret for moms.

Because behind every publication is another woman saying,

“I do this too...”

And sometimes that’s exactly what I needed to hear.

Today one of my loyal subscribers reached out to me because she wanted to make sure I’d seen Substack’s new AI detection tool that supposedly tells readers whether an article was written by a human or AI.

First of all, thank you.

She genuinely reached out because she was looking out for me, and I appreciate that more than she knows because I’ll be honest… I had absolutely no idea this was even a thing.

Maybe my little corner of Substack is just really drama-free because I haven’t seen much of this conversation. Apparently there’s a whole group of people going on a bit of a witch hunt trying to figure out who’s using AI and who’s “really writing.”

If you’ve seen my Notes today… you already know I have some thoughts.

So let me just say them here.

Yes.

I use AI.

Very openly.

Honestly, I didn’t think this was a secret.

My profile picture is AI.

Every image I post is AI-generated.

And now apparently I need to clarify that my writing uses AI too.

Here’s why.

I’m a mom with two kids under two.

I work full-time from home.

I don’t have daycare.

I don’t have a nanny.

I don’t have a cleaning lady.

My husband travels a lot for work.

Our families live eight and twelve hours away.

Some days I’m bouncing between Teams meetings, client calls, emails, pumping, diaper changes, snack requests, nap schedules, and a dog pawing at the door to go outside every ten minutes.

Substack has become one of the healthiest things I’ve done for myself since becoming a mom.

I started Motherhood Between Meetings on Mother’s Day. I stumbled across Substack through Instagram, thought it looked interesting, and figured I’d give it a shot.

I am not a writer.

I don’t have a journalism degree.

I’ve never taken a writing class.

I just have about 8,000 thoughts bouncing around my head every day, and for the first time in a long time, I found somewhere I could actually get them out.

It’s become therapy for me.

It’s become a journal.

It’s become a place where I’ve connected with moms who understand exactly what this season feels like.

I’m not giving that up because someone on the internet thinks using AI somehow makes my stories less real.

Because here’s what writing actually looks like for me.

It’s what I’m doing right now.

My baby woke up early from his nap.

My toddler finally decided to go down.

I’m waiting for my turn to speak on a Teams call.

My dog is barking because he wants outside.

So I’m talk texting every thought running through my brain before someone inevitably needs me.

Then I open AI.

I literally give it a prompt like:

“Here’s my brain dump.”

“I’m angry about XYZ.”

“Here’s what happened today.”

“Turn this into a Substack article.”

“Keep it sounding like me.”

“My audience is moms navigating postpartum, identity, working from home, anxiety, and motherhood.”

A few minutes later, I have a draft.

Then the real work starts.

Sometimes I read it and immediately think, “Yep. That’s exactly what I meant.”

Other times I laugh because it’s so painfully obvious AI wrote that sentence.

“Nope.”

Delete.

Rewrite.

“That’s not funny.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That isn’t even factually correct.”

My favorite was during my in-laws series when AI basically told me,

“Maybe we should soften this a little.”

I literally answered back,

“Ok… but I also want to vent just a little.”

So we compromised.

That’s honestly what writing with AI looks like.

It’s less “AI wrote my article.”

It’s more like having an editor sitting next to me while I ramble for twenty minutes.

It organizes my thoughts.

It catches where I contradict myself.

It reminds me when my emotions are outrunning what I’m actually trying to say.

If I didn’t use AI, I probably wouldn’t write here at all.

Not because I can’t.

Because I don’t have the time.

Eventually it would become one more thing on my already overflowing to-do list, and I’d start resenting something that’s actually been incredibly healing for me.

Instead, AI lets me keep showing up.

It lets me share the routines and systems that have helped me work full-time from home while raising two little kids.

It lets me create my work-from-home blueprints.

It helps me meal plan.

It helps me organize family trips.

It helps me build routines.

It helps me take the chaos constantly bouncing around inside my brain and turn it into something another mom might actually enjoy reading.

And honestly?

I think that’s pretty incredible.

I’m also not pretending AI deserves all the credit.

The stories are mine.

The experiences are mine.

The opinions are definitely mine.

The postpartum anxiety?

Mine.

The postpartum rage?

Unfortunately… also mine.

The weird thoughts that somehow turn into articles people resonate with?

Those are mine too.

AI just helps me say them in a way people can actually follow because if I posted the raw version straight from my talk-to-text, half of it would read like,

“Get that out of your mouth… hold on… where’s your shoe?… no don’t lick that… okay where was I?”

Actually… maybe that’s more authentic.

So thank you to the subscriber who reached out today.

I genuinely appreciate it.

And for anyone wondering…

Yes.

I use AI.

I always have.

I never planned on hiding it.

I honestly thought it was obvious.

I hope the professional writers on this platform can have a little grace for moms like me who are simply trying to get our voices out into the world and find someplace to connect other than Instagram.

I’m not trying to cheat.

I’m trying to create.

I’m trying to hold onto one small piece of myself during a season where almost every minute belongs to someone else.

And if AI is what allows me to keep doing that…

I’ll keep using it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to ask AI to make me a picture for this article and remind it for the thousandth time I do not have brown hair… and I only have one daughter. For some reason it always puts a bow in my baby boys hair.

Come on, ChatGPT.

Get it together.

Comment

One thing I never expected after starting my in-laws series was how many messages I would receive from women saying,

“I thought I was the only one.”

Many of you told me you’ve wanted to share your stories for years but never felt comfortable attaching your name to them. Whether its because your family follows you online, you’re trying to protect relationships, or you simply don’t want your story traced back to you, I completely understand.

That’s one of the reasons I created Motherhood Between Meetings anonymously in the first place: to protect my career and my family.

So today we’re trying something new.

Welcome to The Motherhood Mailbox!

The Motherhood Mailbox is a place where moms can anonymously share the stories they’ve carried for years- the ones that are too complicated, too personal, or too messy to post under their own name. I’ll lightly edit submissions for clarify and remove identifying details, but every story will stay true to the heart of the writer’s experience.

Today we’re starting with the in-laws because that’s where this community first began. But my hope is that one day this mailbox will be filled with stories about work, motherhood, identity, and all the complicated moments in between.

As always, the goal isn’t to villainize anyone.

It’s simply to create a place where moms can vent, share their own story, and say:

“I thought I was the only one.”

Reading this, I kept thinking about something I’ve learned while writing this series.

Like my situation, very few of these stories are actually about one big event.

They’re about hundreds of tiny moments.

A comment.

An expectation.

An unannounced visit.

A “helpful suggestion.”

A gift that somehow feels like a competition.

None of them sound dramatic on their own.

But over time they create tension that becomes impossible to ignore.

I also noticed something else.

So many of these stories aren’t really about in-laws.

They’re about expectations.

Who gets access to your family?

Who gets to make decisions?

Who gets the title of “most involved grandparent?”

Who gets disappointed when those expectations aren’t met?

I don’t know that there’s one perfect answer.

But I do know these conversations happen far more often than most families admit.

Let’s Talk

If you’ve been in a similar situation, what helped?

Did things get better after setting boundaries?

Were you able to repair the relationship?

Or are you still trying to figure it out?

Please keep comments respectful. Every family has different dynamics, and there are always multiple perspectives to a story.

Leave a comment

Want to share your own story?

This series only exists because readers are willing to share.

If you’d like your story featured anonymously, send me your in-law experience.

There’s a good chance another mom is waiting to read the exact story you’re afraid to tell.

One unexpected thing this series has taught me is that I probably don’t have it as bad as I once thought.

So many of your comments and messages have made me realize there are women navigating situations far more complicated than mine. Reading your stories has made me feel less alone, and honestly, it’s given me a different perspective on my own.

That said…

We’re making a U-turn back to venting.

Ever since my daughter fell down the stairs, my in-laws have been trying to schedule another trip to come visit.

The problem is, our six-month-old still isn’t sleeping through the night.

Unlike his sister, who was sleeping great by this age, he’s still waking throughout the night, so our guest room has temporarily become his nursery while we work toward eventually having the kids share a room.

My husband has simply told them,

“Right now isn’t a good time. We’re trying to get the baby sleeping consistently.”

To me, that should be enough.

It isn’t forever.

It isn’t personal.

It’s just the season we’re in.

Instead of accepting that boundary, though, the conversation keeps turning into ways to fix it.

“What about formula?”

“What about cereal?”

“What about…”

“What about…”

“What about…”

Here’s the thing.

I know they mean well.

I genuinely believe they’re trying to help.

But that’s not what it feels like on the receiving end.

Because I’m not asking how to get my baby to sleep.

I’m explaining why now isn’t a good time for overnight guests.

Those are two completely different conversations.

If the response had been,

“That sounds really hard. What can we do to help?”

I would’ve felt completely different.

If they had offered to come down and take a night shift…

Help with the toddler…

Fold laundry…

Cook dinner…

Or simply asked, “What would actually make this season easier for you?”

That would’ve felt like support.

Instead, it feels like the goal is solving my baby’s sleep so they can come visit to see their grandchildren while I get the added stress of entertaining.

Whether that’s their intention or not, that’s how it lands.

And postpartum has taught me something I never understood before.

Unsolicited advice is often received as criticism.

Not because people are trying to criticize.

Because moms are already criticizing themselves.

The internet exists.

Books exist.

Pediatricians exist.

Lactation consultants exist.

Google exists.

You don’t think I’ve looked?

You don’t think I’ve considered every option?

You don’t think I’ve spent countless nights lying awake wondering if there’s something I should be doing differently?

I have.

Every mom has.

When someone immediately responds with another solution I didn’t ask for, what I hear is,

“You’re probably doing something wrong.”

I know that’s probably not what they mean.

But postpartum isn’t always logical.

Sleep deprivation isn’t always logical.

Hormones aren’t always logical.

This morning my husband repeated another suggestion his mom had made.

And he unfortunately got the full force of my frustration.

Later, after we both cooled off, he apologized.

He told me if my dad constantly suggested different ways for him to make more money or get a better job, he’d eventually feel like my dad thought he wasn’t providing well enough for our family.

Exactly.

That’s what motherhood feels like.

When someone constantly tells me how I should be doing something differently, it makes me question whether they think I’m already failing.

I refuse to accept that.

I’m doing what I believe is best for my baby.

Someone else’s parenting decisions don’t have to become mine.

I’m not criticizing the moms who choose formula.

I’m not criticizing the moms who add cereal.

I’m saying I don’t want unsolicited advice unless I ask for it.

The best way to support a postpartum mom isn’t to immediately solve her problem.

It’s to ask,

“How can I help?”

“What do you need from me?”

“What would make this season easier?”

Those questions support a mom.

The endless stream of parenting advice usually just adds one more thing to think about.

So yes…

My in-laws are going to have to wait until I invite them.

Not because I don’t want them to know their grandchildren.

But because right now my priority is getting through this season in the way my husband and I believe is best for our family.

And that should be enough.

One thing I never expected when I started this in-laws series was how many of you would comment or message me privately and say,

“I have a story like this too… ”

One of the reasons I started Motherhood Between Meetings anonymously was to protect my family’s privacy and my career.

Ironically, that anonymity has created a place where other moms feel safe enough to share stories they’ve been carrying for years.

I’ve loved reading every single comment and message you’ve sent me.

Some have made me laugh.

Some have made me cry.

Many have made me realize I’m far from alone.

So I’m going to try something new.

I’m adding a message button below.

If you have an in-laws story you’ve never felt comfortable sharing under your own name, send it to me.

I’m starting an anonymous guest series so other moms can share their stories too.

Because if this series has taught me anything…

it’s that none of us are nearly as alone as we think we are.

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Message me

3:30.

Nine hours.

Baby has slept nine hours. He hasn’t done that in a while, and I’m genuinely so excited… but wow, my boobs were not prepared for this.

I pump just enough to take the edge off, chug some water, and crawl back into bed.

Except I’m not sleeping.

I’m staring at the baby monitor.

I finally got six consecutive hours of sleep, and somehow now I’m lying here wondering if everything is okay because he’s still asleep.

He wiggles.

He squirms.

I debate the eternal motherhood question:

Do I go get him now… or wait until he actually cries?

Around 4:00 AM I decide to check on him.

Immediately, I know.

Poop.

Not just poop… a middle-of-the-night blowout.

He has never done this before.

I flip on every light in the nursery, change his diaper, discover it somehow made its way onto the sleep sack, and start digging through the closet for one he hasn’t worn in months.

Maybe starting solids is changing things already.

Finally, everyone is clean.

I lay him back down.

Back to my room.

4:15 AM.

Now I’m awake.

I toss.

I turn.

I check my phone.

I shouldn’t check my phone.

I check the time anyway.

4:45 AM.

My alarm goes off at 5:00.

Do I even try?

By 5:15 AM, I’ve accepted defeat.

I only slept about six and a half consecutive hours before my day officially started… but honestly?

That’s still a win.

We’re traveling today, so there probably won’t be a nap for me.

Time to log onto work.

Finish packing.

Drink more coffee than water.

And keep the day moving.

Motherhood doesn’t really care how much sleep you got—it just quietly hands you the next thing to do.

I wake up and shuffle into the baby’s room.

He’s crying.

I peek at the clock.

12:03.

I’m surprised. He hasn’t woken up this early in a long time. Just a few short weeks ago, he was sleeping ten-hour stretches.

I’m confused, but I pick him up, nurse him, and put him back to sleep.

3:15 a.m.

He’s crying again.

Now I’m really wondering what’s going on.

For a second, I can feel myself getting frustrated. I know you can sleep through the night.

Then I remember going through this exact same thing with my daughter.

And then I remember that my toddler has been sick all week.

Maybe he has a little bit of whatever she has.

Maybe he just doesn’t feel good.

So I pick him up.

Nurse him.

And put him back to sleep again.

5:18 a.m.

He’s awake.

Again.

Well, I was supposed to wake up at 5:00 anyway.

I had already snoozed my alarm, so I guess this is my wake-up call.

I nurse him and put him back to sleep.

6:00 a.m.

The toddler is awake.

This is early for her, but she’s been sick this week, so I turn on her little nightlight and let her read a book in bed for a while.

Maybe she’ll rest a little longer.

6:45 a.m.

I go back into her room.

She has peed through her pajamas.

Now I feel guilty for assuming she was just waking up early when she was probably uncomfortable.

I change her.

The baby wakes up.

I try to feed him again.

He’s not hungry.

Of course.

So we get everyone together and go for a walk.

8:00 a.m.

Now the dog isn’t feeling well.

Because apparently we’re all participating today.

8:15 a.m.

The TV is on.

I promised myself I wasn’t going to turn it on until after nap time.

But here we are.

Motherhood will humble you.

I can make all the perfect, elaborate plans I want. I can map out our routines, strategically plan my workday, and write an entire Work From Home Blueprint about the systems that help me make it all work.

And I still believe in those systems.

But some days—and some middle-of-the-nights—throw the entire plan out the window.

Someone gets sick.

Someone wakes up three times.

Someone pees through their pajamas.

The dog starts acting weird.

And Danny Go! is on the TV at 8:15 in the morning.

Sometimes the routine works.

Sometimes you just figure it out as you go.

Today is one of those days.

I know.

Here we go again.

Another story about my in-laws.

Except…this one actually isn’t.

Well, not entirely.

Are my in-laws probably the biggest offenders? Absolutely. They’ve unintentionally given me more examples than anyone else, which is why they keep showing up in these stories.

But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized this isn’t really an in-law problem.

It’s a personality thing.

I have friends who do it.

Family members who do it.

Neighbors who do it.

I’ve even watched complete strangers do it.

Some people simply don’t think they need to ask the parents before buying something, bringing something over, or making a decision that ultimately affects someone else’s home.

And here’s what’s interesting: I don’t think those people are wrong.

Or maybe a better way to say it is…I don’t think they’re trying to be.

I’ve realized there are plenty of people who genuinely love surprises. They see a cute outfit, a fun toy, or a great Facebook Marketplace find and immediately think of your child. Their first instinct is, “They’re going to love this!”

That’s a beautiful quality.

It just happens to be one that completely clashes with my personality.

A while back I wrote an article admitting something that almost felt embarrassing to say out loud: sometimes I get overwhelmed—even offended—when people constantly give my family things we don’t need.

Not because I’m ungrateful.

Because every gift creates work.

When you’re a mom, especially one juggling work, young kids, and the invisible mental load of running a household, every unexpected item becomes another decision to make.

Where will it go?

Will they actually use it?

Does it fit?

Should I return it?

Donate it?

Store it?

Throw it away?

As adults, we’re taught the polite response.

Smile.

Say thank you.

Accept it graciously.

And I still believe that’s the right thing to do.

But motherhood has made me realize there’s another side of that conversation that people rarely acknowledge.

The person receiving the gift becomes the one responsible for managing it.

That’s the part no one talks about.

The Christmas Bouncing Thing

One Christmas, when my daughter was around six months old, my in-laws bought her one of those activity jumping toys babies stand in.

Now before anyone comes for me—I know plenty of babies love them.

This isn’t about judging parents who use them.

My sister is a pediatric occupational therapist, and after talking with her about the long-term effects of using those, I had already decided I didn’t really want one. My husband agreed. Not to mention it took up a ton of space in our small house and I just knew it wasn’t something I wanted.

The problem wasn’t that they bought it.

The problem was that no one asked.

Before I even had time to think, my father-in-law had it completely assembled in our living room.

The return option disappeared the second it came out of the box.

Ironically, we still have it.

Not because she ever really used it as a jumper.

Now it’s basically just a table.

We made it work.

But I still remember thinking, A simple phone call could’ve prevented this entire situation.

The Cozy Coupe

Then there was the Cozy Coupe.

If you’re a parent, you already know exactly which toy I’m talking about.

The giant plastic car that somehow takes up the same amount of space as a small SUV.

We were at the beach for my daughter’s first birthday. We weren’t even celebrating her birthday—we were just taking a family trip. Our car was already overflowing with beach chairs, a pack-and-play, luggage, dog supplies, and everything else you need when traveling with a dog and a one-year-old.

My in-laws showed up with a giant pink Cozy Coupe.

I remember looking at it thinking, How exactly do they think we’re getting this home?

My husband thought I was overreacting.

Maybe I was.

At that point in my postpartum journey, I was probably a little more easily irritated than I should’ve been.

But I also remember saying something I still completely believe today.

The toy can absolutely be a surprise for my daughter.

It just shouldn’t be a surprise for me.

Because I’m the one who has to figure out where it’s going to live.

Eventually, my father-in-law drove all the way to our house and assembled it for us before I could even unpack the car.

Again, I know his intentions were kind.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone had decided this giant toy belonged in my house before ever asking whether I wanted it there.

My in-laws live 8 hours away, so the “we can keep it at your house” is not an option.

That was the part that bothered me.

Not the toy.

The assumption.

It’s Not Just My In-Laws

The more I think about it, the more I realize this isn’t just something grandparents do.

I had a friend who was going through a really difficult financial season after I had my second baby.

I think she genuinely wanted to celebrate him but couldn’t afford to bring a gift (Side note: I honestly did not expect gifts from anyone. But I understand people do not want to show up empty handed to visit a post-partum mom.)

She showed up to my house with a handful of used dirty teethers her child no longer needed.

I smiled.

I hugged her.

I thanked her.

The second she left, my husband looked at me and said, “I wouldn’t even let my dog have a chewed bone from another dog, nonetheless give my baby a used teether from another child.”

We both laughed because…who thinks to pass along used teethers?

But then I stopped myself.

She wasn’t trying to offend me.

She was trying to show love in the best way she knew how… (by relocating her junk to my house… haha kidding, kind of.)

I’ve had another friend gift me a used changing pad cover.

Again, she wasn’t trying to offend me.

She’s one of twelve siblings and has four kids herself. Hand-me-downs are simply part of her family’s culture. Finding great deals at Kid to Kid and Facebook Marketplace is practically a sport for her.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there thinking, A used changing pad cover? Really?

Neither of us was wrong.

We simply viewed the situation completely differently.

That’s what I’ve realized keeps happening over and over again.

Most people aren’t trying to burden you with used (previously pooped on) gifts.

They’re trying to care about you.

The burden is just an unintended side effect.

I’ve Finally Let Go of the Guilt

Ironically, this is actually one area where I don’t feel guilty anymore.

If you’ve read the earlier parts of this series, you know I’ve admitted I struggle to speak up. I replay conversations in my head. I avoid confrontation. I worry about hurting people’s feelings.

This?

This isn’t one of those things.

I’m an organized, Type-A person.

I love systems.

I love routines.

I don’t like clutter.

If something isn’t serving our family, it doesn’t stay in our house.

I’ve stopped apologizing for that.

I’ve even found a pretty funny system.

My two-year-old is the only child in the world who does not enjoy bath time.

She has serious FOMO and knows bath time means bedtime is next.

So now I let her pick one thing from the playroom to bring into the bath with her.

Sometimes its not a water proof toy.

Sometimes it sits in the bathtub for a few days before it mysteriously falls apart.

Soon enough…it gets tossed.

Outdoor toys seem to have a similar fate after spending a week baking in the summer sun.

It becomes trash. Problem solved.

I know that probably sounds terrible.

But it’s also helped me realize something.

Once someone gives me a gift, it becomes mine to manage.

And if managing it means donating it, regifting it, returning it, or quietly throwing it away because it no longer serves our family…

I’m okay with that.

Maybe Experiences Are the Better Gift

These days, when people ask what my kids want for birthdays or Christmas, my answer is almost always the same.

A zoo membership.

A children’s museum membership.

A science museum pass.

A play gym membership.

Experiences.

Those gifts last all year.

When grandparents come to visit, we all get to enjoy them together.

The gift keeps giving without requiring another storage bin in my garage.

Honestly, my daughter is happiest collecting rocks, blowing bubbles, drawing with sidewalk chalk, and digging holes in the backyard.

She doesn’t need another oversized toy.

She needs time.

She needs experiences.

She needs people.

And maybe that’s really what I’ve been trying to say all along.

Because after writing articles about motherhood, boundaries, and family dynamics, I don’t actually think this is about gifts.

It’s about remembering that when you give something to a child, you’re also giving something to the parent.

Sometimes that’s joy.

Sometimes it’s another item to organize.

Sometimes it’s another decision to make.

So if there’s one thing I hope people take away from this, it’s simple.

The toy should absolutely be a surprise for the child.

It just shouldn’t be a surprise for the mom who’s responsible for finding somewhere to put it.

Would it really kill us to ask first?

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When my second baby turned 6 months old, I realized something:

I’ve officially worked from home with a baby through the 3–6 month stage twice.

Two babies. Two completely different personalities. Hundreds of work calls. Endless feedings. Naps, missed naps, diaper changes, and deadlines.

And after doing this stage twice, I can confidently say which products earned permanent spots in my routine—and which ones didn’t.

So if you’re curious what a real day looked like behind the scenes of my 3-6 month WFH Mom Blueprint, here’s what I actually used.

Every baby is different, but after navigating this stage with two babies while maintaining a full-time work-from-home career, these are the products I consistently came back to.

Most of them aren’t flashy. They just made everyday life easier.

The Product That Deserves Employee of the Month: My Baby Wrap

If I had to choose one thing that made working from home possible, it would be my Solly Baby Wrap.

Need to respond to emails?

Baby wrap.

Need to walk the dog?

Baby wrap.

Need to calm a fussy baby while finishing a task?

Baby wrap.

Both of my babies loved being close, and this gave me my hands back without sacrificing the snuggles.

👉 Solly Baby Wrap or Boba Baby Wrap

My Most Important Productivity Tool Wasn’t a Laptop

It was a gym membership with childcare.

Seriously.

Most people think it was about fitness.

It wasn’t.

This was less about fitness and more about creating a sustainable system.

For me, it was:

• A mental reset

• A place to work

• A change of scenery

• Built-in childcare

• Adult interaction

Those 1-2 hours often gave me enough breathing room to reset and tackle low-focus work without feeling trapped at home.

The Baby “Stations” That Saved My Workday

I quickly learned that one place to put the baby wasn’t enough.

I rotated between:

• Pack N Play

• Baby Bouncer (I loved this one so much that I bought a second one for baby #2. It was easily my most-used “baby station” during the workday.)

• Swing

• MamaRoo

The key wasn’t buying everything.

The key was having a few safe places throughout the house so I could move through my day without carrying a baby every second.

The Unexpected MVP: The Einstein Fish Tank

If you’ve ever heard another mom mention “the fish tank,” she’s probably talking about the Baby Einstein Sea Dreams Soother.

My babies were both fascinated by it.

Would it entertain them forever?

No.

Did it buy me enough time to drink coffee, answer an email, or take a quick shower?

Absolutely.

👉 Baby Einstein Fish Tank

Better Naps = Better Workdays

The biggest productivity hack wasn’t productivity related at all.

It was sleep.

The three things that made the biggest difference:

• Blackout curtains

• Hatch sound machine (in nursery)

• Portable sound machine

• Consistent nap environment

When naps became more predictable, everything else became easier.

My Feeding Survival Kit

As a breastfeeding mom trying to work, these became non-negotiables:

• Large water bottle

• Portable pump

• Protein coffee

• Protein shakes

• Easy grab-and-go snacks

Not because they’re exciting.

Because decision fatigue is real.

The less I had to think about feeding myself, the more energy I had for everything else.

The “Mom Uniform” I Wore on Repeat

Making outfit decisions wasn’t a priority during this season. I kept it simple:

• Black leggings or bike shorts

• Nursing bra

• Breastfeeding-friendly tops: Shirts, Tanks, Sweatshirt

• Cardigan or blazer for meetings

I wore some version of this almost daily. Comfortable enough for feedings and floor play, but polished enough for work calls.

What Didn’t Matter As Much As I Thought

After two babies, here’s what surprised me:

The expensive baby “stuff” wasn’t what made the biggest difference.

The things that mattered most were:

• Predictable feeding times

• Good naps

• Safe places to put baby down

• Babywearing

• Getting out of the house

• Keeping my expectations realistic

That’s it.

The products supported the system.

They weren’t the system.

Want the Exact Schedule I Followed?

These are the products that helped.

But the real reason I was able to work from home with a baby for the 3–6 month stage—twice—was because I had a system.

Inside my WFH Mom Blueprint: 3–6 Months, I share:

• My complete daily schedule

• Feeding and nap rhythms

• Deep work windows

• Gym childcare strategy

• Productivity systems

• What worked (and what didn’t)

If you’re trying to balance motherhood and your career without traditional daycare, this guide will save you months of trial and error.

Get the full blueprint here → https://stan.store/karlilynn

Final Thoughts

The biggest lesson from doing the 3-6 month stage twice?

You don’t need a perfect routine.

You need a flexible rhythm.

These are the products that genuinely helped me work, mother, breastfeed, and stay sane during one of the most challenging and rewarding seasons of life.

If you’re currently in the thick of it, I hope this gives you a shortcut to some of the trial and error I went through.

And if you’ve found a product that saved your sanity during the 3-6 month stage, I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

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After my last few articles, I received hundreds of comments from people sharing stories about their own in-laws.

Some of them weren’t even talking about in-laws.

They were talking about their own parents.

That made me realize something.

Maybe this isn’t really about my in-laws at all.

Maybe it’s about the strange transition that happens when you become a parent yourself.

Because somewhere along the way, everyone quietly assumes you’ll raise your family the way they raised theirs.

Not because they’re trying to be controlling.

Because that’s simply what they know.

The problem is, they don’t always realize they’re assuming it.

And neither did I until I became a mom.

I’ve started noticing these little moments that, by themselves, aren’t a big deal.

But together?

They leave me feeling like someone else already wrote the blueprint for my family before I even had the chance to.

The funny thing is, my own parents do this too.

I’ve talked openly with them about homeschooling someday. My daughter is only two years old, so we have years before we even have to make that decision.

Their response is exactly what you’d expect.

“You went to public school and you turned out fine.”

They’re probably right.

I did turn out fine.

But that doesn’t automatically mean I have to make every parenting decision the same way they did.

So I tell them.

“I know. But we’re going to do something different.”

Sometimes my mom gives me a little bit of a hard time.

Sometimes she asks more questions.

Sometimes she probably thinks I’m overthinking things.

But that’s where it ends.

We talk about it.

We disagree.

We move on.

No one gets offended.

No one makes me feel guilty for having a different opinion.

I never leave those conversations wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut.

That’s the difference.

It’s not that my parents never question my decisions.

It’s that I never feel afraid to answer them.

My husband has reminded me of this more than once.

He’s told me, “People are allowed to ask questions. They’re allowed to disagree.”

And he’s right.

Questions aren’t the problem.

Disagreement isn’t the problem.

The problem is why I feel so comfortable speaking up to one side of the family and so uncomfortable speaking up to the other.

That’s the part I’ve been trying to understand.

When I wrote in my last article, “When I’m around them, I become them,” this is exactly what I meant.

I become quieter.

I stop correcting things.

I stop explaining myself.

I stop saying what I actually think because every little thing feels too insignificant to bring up.

Until I realize I’ve spent an entire visit swallowing a hundred tiny thoughts.

One of the first times I noticed this was when my daughter was about nine months old.

We were all together celebrating my nephew’s first birthday.

He had just turned one.

At some point during the party, my father-in-law casually asked when my daughter was getting an iPad.

Without thinking, I immediately said, “Never.”

I explained that I’d read enough research that I didn’t want her having her own iPad.

Later, my husband gently pointed out that maybe I came across a little stronger than I intended and reminded me that maybe my nephew had just gotten one for his birthday.

Maybe my father-in-law wasn’t trying to challenge me.

Maybe he was just making conversation.

And honestly?

That’s probably true.

But what surprised me wasn’t the conversation.

It was how I felt afterward.

I remember telling my husband, “I actually feel really good that I said it.”

Not because I wanted to argue.

Not because I wanted to make anyone feel bad about buying my nephew an iPad.

Every family gets to make their own decisions.

I simply felt relieved that, for once, people knew where I stood.

That conversation also became the beginning of something else.

Because after we celebrated my nephew’s first birthday, there seemed to be an expectation that we’d naturally do the same thing when our daughter turned one.

It wasn’t said outright.

It was just…assumed.

Questions started coming.

“So what are you doing for her birthday?”

“When’s the party?”

“Where are you having it?”

The thing is…

We weren’t planning a party.

Not because I don’t believe in birthday parties.

Not because I think they’re wrong.

I just honestly believe that first birthdays are mostly for the adults.

Our daughter wasn’t asking for a party.

She didn’t know the difference.

So instead, we spent the day together.

We took her to Build-A-Bear.

She picked out a stuffed animal.

We made pancakes.

We cut up fresh fruit.

We let the day be slow.

Simple.

Fun.

She had the best day.

It felt exactly right for our family.

But afterward there were comments about celebrating when everyone was together.

Questions about why we weren’t having a party.

Suggestions that we could still throw one.

Again…

Nothing mean.

Nothing dramatic.

No one was trying to be hurtful.

But underneath all of it was this quiet assumption.

Well…we did it this way.

So you’ll probably do it this way too.

Halloween was another one.

I actually love fall. Growing up, Halloween was probably my favorite holiday—not because of the candy, but because I loved everything that came with the season. Football games. Homecoming. Cooler weather. That nostalgic feeling that fall brings.

But now that I’m a mom, I look at Halloween a little differently.

When my daughter was one, we didn’t take her trick-or-treating.

Honestly, I never even questioned it.

We don’t really do sugar in our house, so she wasn’t going to eat the candy anyway. More importantly, she was one. She could barely even walk without wanting to be carried after five minutes.

To me, dressing up a baby and walking door-to-door collecting candy she wasn’t going to eat felt like something we would be doing for ourselves—not for her.

If we’d been in town, we probably would have gone to a trunk-or-treat because that feels more manageable for little kids. But either way, I never felt like we needed to celebrate Halloween that way just because that’s what everyone does.

Then it came up.

There were comments about us not taking her trick-or-treating.

Not mean comments.

Just the assumption that, of course, we would have.

And once again, I found myself quietly defending a decision I had never even thought needed defending.

What’s funny is that my husband is actually even less interested in these traditions than I am.

He’s the one who’s more likely to say we don’t need a big birthday party for a two-year-old.

He’s perfectly happy skipping Halloween at this age.

He’s never been attached to trick-or-treating or a lot of the things his family did growing up.

The difference is…it doesn’t stay with him.

He hears the comments, shrugs his shoulders, and moves on with his day.

I admire that about him.

Meanwhile, I replay the conversation on the drive home.

I wonder if I sounded rude.

I wonder if I should have said more.

I wonder why something so small feels so heavy.

Maybe that’s the real issue.

It’s not the birthday parties.

Or Halloween.

It’s the quiet assumption that these decisions have already been made before anyone ever asks what we want.

And that’s what I’ve started noticing over and over again.

It’s rarely about one specific thing.

It’s the pattern.

Elf on the Shelf is another example.

My daughter loves the little Elf movies on Netflix.

I think they’re adorable.

But I have absolutely no desire to do Elf on the Shelf in our house.

Not because I hate it.

I just don’t want another daily responsibility every December.

And yet every time someone asks my two-year-old,

“Do you think Santa’s going to bring you an elf this year?”

I immediately tense up.

Not because an elf matters that much.

Because no one is asking me.

They’re asking her.

Except she’s two.

She has no idea what they’re talking about.

They’re really asking me.

Or maybe they’re assuming the decision has already been made.

There’s another thing I’ve noticed, and I don’t know if anyone else experiences this, but it has quietly become one of my biggest pet peeves.

People talking through my daughter instead of talking to me.

Before one of her birthdays, my father-in-law looked at my toddler and asked, “So what are you doing for your birthday this year?”

She just stared at him.

I stayed quiet.

Not because I didn’t know the answer.

But because he wasn’t really asking her.

He was asking me.

I remember thinking, If you want to know, just ask me.

Again, it’s that same feeling.

This is what we did.

So this is probably what you’ll do too.

The paper calendar was another one.

After my husband and I got married, there were comments about keeping the family calendar.

That’s what had always been done.

My mother-in-law always kept a paper calendar hung in the kitchen with everything going on.

Eventually, it was just assumed from my father-in-law that responsibility would become mine. That I would do the same this.

Except… it’s the freaking 21st century.

We don’t use a paper calendar.

We never planned to.

I have an iPhone.

No one ever asked if we wanted to continue that tradition.

It was simply assumed.

Again, not a huge deal.

But another tiny reminder that someone else already had an idea of what my role as a wife and mom would look like.

None of these moments are huge.

If I told someone one story by itself, they’d probably think I was overreacting.

Honestly, sometimes I think that too.

But when you stack them together…

The birthday party.

The iPad.

Halloween.

The Elf on the Shelf.

The calendar.

The questions asked through my toddler instead of directly to me.

They all create the same feeling.

Like I’m slowly being handed someone else’s parenting manual.

And every time I choose something different, I feel like I have to explain why.

What’s interesting is that I don’t feel that way with my own parents.

They question me too.

They don’t always agree with me.

But I never hesitate to tell them where I stand.

So maybe this isn’t really about disagreement.

Maybe it’s about relationship dynamics.

Maybe it’s about confidence.

Maybe it’s about the version of myself I become around different people.

Because around my parents, I stay myself.

Around my in-laws…

I become them.

I become quieter.

More agreeable.

Less willing to say, “Actually, we’re doing something different.”

And that’s what I’m trying to change.

Because these aren’t boundaries that involve safety.

Those are actually easier.

If someone is putting your child in danger, you know exactly where you stand.

It’s these tiny, ordinary moments that are so much harder.

Because every single one feels too small to address.

But together, they become emotionally exhausting.

I don’t think anyone in my life is trying to write my story for me.

I think they’re simply sharing the story they already know.

But motherhood has taught me that I don’t have to keep reading from someone else’s script.

I get to write my own.

Creating your own family isn’t just about having children.

It’s deciding which traditions you’ll carry forward.

Which expectations you’ll leave behind.

And accepting that not everyone will understand those choices.

I’m not trying to recreate my childhood.

I’m not trying to recreate my husband’s childhood either.

We’re trying to create our own.

Maybe that’s why speaking up about the iPad felt so good.

Maybe that’s why I wish people would ask me instead of asking my toddler.

Maybe that’s why these tiny moments don’t feel so tiny after all.

There comes a point when you’re no longer just someone’s daughter or someone’s daughter-in-law.

You’re the mom now.

And this family gets to be yours.

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