“I owe an apology to all the mothers.
Before I had children of my own, I spent years working as a full-time nanny. I grew up surrounded by babies in my family and quickly became one of the go-to babysitters at my church. I loved every second of it, and I prided myself on doing everything “right.” I took parenting classes, folded my southern upbringing into every lesson, and poured my energy into cooking, cleaning, and teaching children without ever losing my patience. I crafted with them instead of letting them sit in front of a screen. I genuinely thought I had it all figured out. I could not wait for the day I would marry and start my own family. In my mind, I would be the perfect wife and mother: the dishes would always be done, laundry would never pile up, screen time would be nonexistent, and our meals would always be organic.
Oh, how wrong I was.
Motherhood did not just humble me—it knocked me flat on my face and buried me under a mountain of sticky laundry. My children were perched on me with tiny hands clutching iPhones, watching “Baby Bum” as chaos raged around us. No one was listening, nothing stayed clean, and my patience evaporated somewhere between the laundry and the burned dinner. My husband, a saint, often ended up with a hastily made sandwich while I cried in the corner with a glass of wine.
So, to all the mothers I ever offered advice to when I thought I knew everything: I am deeply sorry. I never judged you—I loved helping—but I assumed your messy house reflected laziness or personality quirks. I didn’t realize that many of you were surviving, barely keeping your heads above water, and that your priorities were not the same as mine.
I had no idea that you had been up since dawn, scrambling to make breakfast while your child cried because their socks were red instead of yellow.
I never knew your laundry sat in the dryer for days because your toddler discovered how to unlock the bathroom door and threw everything in the toilet before your first cup of coffee.
I didn’t understand that serving frozen pizza for dinner wasn’t laziness—it was survival. You were in the trenches, doing everything you could to keep your family fed, clothed, and emotionally afloat.
I had no clue about the guilt you felt when you let your child watch TV because you just needed five minutes of silence.
I never saw that at six o’clock in the evening, after a day of chaos, you put on makeup for the first time that day so you could look “put together” for your husband—while the laundry remained undone, dinner was simple, and you felt like the world’s worst wife. That makeup was armor, a mask for the exhaustion and the doubt that had settled deep in your bones.
I’m sorry. I truly had no idea.
Motherhood is beautiful, beyond words. I love the quiet snuggles, the laughter at the park, and the way Christmas feels magical again when experienced through a child’s eyes. But nothing—not one second of parenting—is easy. You will not know the depth of love and exhaustion, of joy and frustration, until you live it yourself. And even then, you learn every day.
So be kind. Offer patience to the woman with the screaming child in Target—you have no idea how hard she’s working to teach, comfort, and contain that little human while holding back tears herself. Let the mom with a newborn go ahead of you at the grocery store—her body is exhausted, her hormones are raging, and she’s still keeping life running at home. That small act of kindness can mean the world.
Remember, no one truly knows it all. Every family is figuring out what works for them. Just because their life looks different from yours doesn’t mean they are failing. So hold your unsolicited advice, offer grace instead, and share kindness whenever you can. And maybe, if you really want to make a friend, bring coffee.
Motherhood is messy, exhausting, and imperfect. But it is also miraculous, filled with moments that will leave your heart unrecognizably full. And for every mother—seen or unseen—I now bow my head in respect and admiration. I get it now. I finally get it.”
