Motherhood is one hell of a professor. In just over a decade, I’ve learned more about myself than any overpriced private university ever taught me, and the journey is far from over.

Patience. The kind of patience that asks you to stay grounded when you want to run, react, shut down and disappear. The patience that suppresses raised voices and bargaining. Motherhood forced me to realize how uncomfortable I was with slowing down, repetition, and surrendering control over my own time and emotional state.

Surrender. This was the hardest lesson of all. My freedom, the one thing I valued above all else, I had to relinquish. I no longer lived fully for myself. My free spirit breathes for another now.

Perspective. Being forced to view the world through my children’s eyes has in turn changed the way view and navigate the world. I’m less reactive and less interested in quick judgments. It has forced me to understand that behavior often has a story behind it, even when you cannot see it from the outside.

Gratitude. I don’t live in a constant state of appreciation, and I don’t think I need to. But when I step back, there’s nothing I’m chasing to feel whole. I’m okay with shoveling snow if it means I got to watch it fall. I’ll do the yard work to watch the flowers grow. I’ll spend the day in the kitchen to fill their bellies. I’m happy with this life more than I ever thought I could be.

Powerlessness. The ocean brings me peace, a reminder that I am not in control of everything. Motherhood feels the same. Loving this deeply means accepting that I cannot protect them from everything. I cannot control outcomes. I cannot guarantee health, happiness, safety, or ease. Love does not remove vulnerability. It makes it louder.

Wonder. My own mother died when I was 14 and with that I grew up overnight. Having children softened something in me that hardened long ago. Children are fully present in a way adults forget how to be. They notice everything. They experience life without irony, numbness, or performance.

Reflection. Motherhood became a mirror. It revealed unresolved wounds, unhealthy patterns, and emotional gaps I could once avoid. While children may inherit you’re strengths but they also expose your unhealed wounds. You are constantly trying to put yourself back together while trying not to break anything else.

Priority. Motherhood didn’t clarify my values it defined them. Protecting my peace became more relevant than anything I could purchase. Privacy, security, home became more important than it ever had.

The value of my partner. Nothing reveals the truth about a relationship faster than raising a child together. You see who someone is when life becomes less convenient and more rushed. I learned that love is not built on grand gestures. It is built on consistency, restraint and reliance.

Motherhood stripped me and rebuilt me. Motherhood educated me, And it continues to do so.

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Image by Nick Fewings

I intentionally threw away a piece of my daughter’s childhood. I’d like to say it was an accident but it wasn’t. It all started when I had a brilliant idea to hire an organizer, a woman I spoke to for five minutes whose contact information I found on Facebook, to come into my home and help me “purge.”

Over the course of one long hourly rated day she threw Barbies into bins, rearranged the gift closet, tossed broken plastic…

And somewhere in the middle of all that efficiency, something went wrong.

Here is where I regress.

All kids have their toys, including my own. For my girls, one of theirs was My Little Ponies. Maybe they weren’t the most special but nonetheless they were important. Important enough to save.

J. carried the My Little Pony collector’s manual around in her pudgy little hands and made me read it to her until the pages were tattered. She had a pink denim jacket with pony patches that I individually applied with a heat press just for her.

S. dressed as Rainbow Dash for her first real Halloween, the one where she ran wild until dark and sugar-crashed into a heap of empty candy wrappers. It was the most beautiful costume, with a long glittering train my mother’s helper carried up and down a million steps while it shimmered under the streetlights. And when the My Little Pony play doh kit from Target wouldn’t arrive in time for Christmas, there I was paying triple to have another one rushed from who knows where to find its rightful place under the tree.

Yet it was more than costumes and figurines.

I loved My Little Pony when I was little. I understood. This one was braver, that one kinder. That their favorite pony represented a reflection of themselves.

It was something we shared. And I loved that.

But…

In the throes of organization I made a mistake.

One by one I let the ponies go.

What I didn’t consider is that some objects aren’t clutter.

They are part of our story.

Children stop playing with things long before we’re ready for the evidence to disappear. Just because it’s not cuddled or carted doesn’t mean it is meant to be discarded. Sometimes, in our eagerness to make space, we rush an ending that would have happened on its own terms.

You know the play kitchen set? They first stood on tippy toes to make “lunch,” yet quickly towered over it. I left it for as long as I could even though I knew I couldn’t save it forever. But when we eventually dragged it to the curb, it was long after our last plastic meal had been served. Seeing it sit there waiting for garbage collection, we were accepting a time of transition.

Fast forward.

J. was cleaning her room and found one tiny pony figurine that had been left behind.
“Where are the rest?”

At that moment, I had to tell her they were donated. Nothing I said sounded like enough. We both knew there was no excuse; I should have known better.

I had no choice but to listen to her cry as she had to accept saying goodbye to a piece of her childhood before she was ready, much like I had to accept I couldn’t fix it.

A friend, hearing the story, kindly offered me her daughter’s outgrown ponies.

I declined.

They weren’t my daughter’s dolls. My children didn’t teeth on their hooves. They didn’t shove them into overstuffed backpacks for family vacations. They didn’t knot their manes by grooming them too enthusiastically.

They weren’t their memories. I just want our memories of matte and drool and baby teeth marks back…

That’s the thing no one tells you when they hand you a donation bag and a sense of accomplishment: some things are not clutter. Some things aren’t meant to leave.

I like to imagine the ponies found a loving home somewhere.

But the pit in my stomach reminds me

they already had one.

But I want to.

I have been rambling for what feels like ever about starting the second phase of my life. But in actuality, we’re really probably talking about phase ten (that’s a whole other series for a whole other time). Anyway… here I am, trying to figure out who I am, who I desire to be and what comes next at 47 years old.

Now I know, yes, I am a mother, and that’s supposed to bring infinite fulfillment—after all, I am raising two amazing human beings. I have a husband who works long hours and travels, leaving me to run the show essentially on my own. I should feel proud. And I do.

But (of course there’s a but), I want more. I want to proclaim, when someone asks, “What do you do? SOMETHING! I want my calendar to reflect more than insurance due dates, well visits, and “hair” for my completely unmanageable periomenopause roots—a constant reminder of the passage of time.

I am grateful for my privilege to ponder this whole second-half quandary like it’s a menu at a quaint little cafe. I paid my dues with a traumatic childhood, worked like hell in young adulthood, and here I am—thankful, blessed, and still working through it all.

So where am I going? I have no idea- yet. What am I looking for? A space on the calendar. An adult to talk to who isn’t the UPS manager that knows me by my returns. The spark that propels me. Self-discovery with a purpose. I want to look back on my life and say, I did this for me; I left my mark on the world—not just through my family, wonderful as they are, but through myself.

I want to rise from the laundry pile with determination, power, and strength. To get out of bed in the morning and not give a damn if the bed is made—not because I’m late running errands, but because I’m late for something greater. Life has to have a purpose beyond mindless shopping, scrolling, and searching. Life is too precious to discard.

And I’m fucking sick of taking out trash.

• Honor my mental health. It’s non-negotiable.

• Motherhood doesn’t have to be chaos.

• Peace is a choice.

• Home is my family’s sanctuary; it should be treated as such.

• Reduce the clutter; release what doesn’t bring happiness. Relationships, possessions, thoughts.

• Embrace gratitude. It’s a beautiful feeling.

• Recognize my blessings and be thankful everyday for them.

• Craft clear goals. They don’t have to be grandiose but are essential for personal growth.

• Individual systems, routines, schedules require work and flexibility.

• Wellness is more than going to the doctor. It is also exercise, food, sleep, meditation.

• A quiet mind brings restful nights.

• Self-forgiveness. I am not the perfect mother, wife or human. It’s ok.

The clock is always ticking.

It’s Wednesday night. Two hours and five minutes until lights out. One day twenty-one hours and thirty-six minutes until summer camp 2025 is in the books. One week five days twelve hours and eight minutes until school starts.

I know I’m lucky. Right now, I don’t have serious problems, and I’m deeply grateful for that. It hasn’t always been this way. I’ve walked through very dark days, but this isn’t that story.

I didn’t set out to be this version of a mom. I didn’t foresee myself as instituting bedtimes and schedules and preparing weeks in advance for the anything really. I thought I’d be the cool one. I thought I’d dance in the kitchen forever, live without a schedule, and never silently wish someone else’s child would go home. And for a while, I was that mom.

In the beginning, my girls never had nap schedules or feeding routines. We were out of the hospital and into real life within days. My first went everywhere with us from the moment she left the hospital. She was “adaptable.” And my second, well she had no choice; she was in play-spaces at barely a week old because her sister was. They slept when they were tired, ate when they were hungry, and ran around like feral animals the rest of the time. It was fun.

But somewhere between co-sleeping and stepping on wooden blocks barefoot, I changed. Free-range slowly gave way to tennis lessons, horseback riding and tutoring. Bedtimes were invented. Bath schedules appeared. And the other day, I officially became the un-coolest mom alive when I said “no” to the Sabrina Carpenter concert.

Who am I? What happened to me?

Turns out, that mom who danced barefoot in the kitchen is still here. She just has a schedule now. She’s learned how to book the dentist six months in advance, say no to things that don’t make sense, and stock a fridge for tweens who are always hungry and one of which doesn’t like anything.

I'm not less fun. I’m just more functional or perhaps, realistic. Which seems to be the only way to get through.

They’re growing. I am too. My girls need a strong foundation with clear limits, structure, and the occasional no. Life looks different now because it should.

Maybe I am growing up or maybe my perception is just shifting. Regardless, I am still here, buried beneath the snack wrappers, the planners and last year’s homework remnants that wait to be discarded. I am still here, dancing in the kitchen, just it’s a little earlier in the evening because we have to be up early tomorrow.

If you’ve ever wondered what happened to the mom you thought you’d be—drop a comment. I promise you’re not alone in this evolution

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Photo by guille pozzi on Unsplash

Photo by Remy_Loz on Unsplash

July 2021. It was hot, sunny, clear blue skies. There I was standing in the parking lot of my daughters’ private school, measuring parking spaces with the custodian, a notebook, messy bun and sweat running down my back.

I was chairing the school fair, a six month commitment that took over my entire life.

I did it again in 2022 and again in 2023.

At first I didn’t see the problem. I was fueled by adrenaline. I was high on booking vendors. I wasn’t just a volunteer; I was a PTA mom. One of the go to women who got stuff done. If something needed organizing, I was your girl. Silent auction? Check. Class mom? Obviously. Field day? I already had a Google Sheet, was on my fifth Costco run for snacks, made t-shirts on my Cricut and bought the poms-poms. And don’t worry, I brought my check book.

I didn’t test the water. I dove straight into the alluring, performative deep end of volunteer culture. I drank the kool-aid that would slowly kill me.

The Prestige of the Inner Circle

There’s a certain currency in being “that mom.” The one who has inner jokes with the office staff. The one who brings the teachers a cake the first week of school and a bagel breakfast the last. The one who gets early access to the teacher list. The one who can pop into her daughter’s classroom unannounced with a forgotten water bottle and stay to give her a hug.

All it took was hundreds of unpaid hours and a willingness to let the school functionally own my soul. Small trade-off, right?

My husband once said it was taking a toll on our marriage, as he ate almonds for dinner the third night in a row. I laughed it off. In retrospect, I don’t think he was joking. In fact, I think he may still be suffering from PTSD. I know I am.

I Judged. Oh, I Judged.

I’ll admit it: I quietly judged the moms who didn’t do much.

“Must be nice,” we’d say in our late-night group texts, while finalizing the theme for a father/daughter dance. Old Hollywood or Under the Stars. On mid-week runs to Hobby Lobby, we’d question what the others had to do that was “so important.” (Now, I can think of a million things but at that time nothing could be more important than buying Hawaiian leis in bulk.)

We said it was fine.
We said we didn’t mind doing it.
We said it was “for the kids.”

That phrase should come with a warning label. Under that beautifully crafted banner, we were slowly breaking ourselves down. We weren’t just giving, we were bleeding out. So much so we were blind to the collateral damage.

After one particularly hectic event, my daughter lay on the floor sobbing, “You didn’t spend the day with me at all.” And she was right, I pawned her and her sister off on their grandparents. I was too busy checking on vendors, counting hot dogs, and managing bounce house capacity to spend anytime enjoying it with my own children. She was right. It was awful.

I called my friend crying and she convinced me my daughter would understand one day. I believed her or maybe I just wanted to. Either way I ran the same event again and even. However, the image of her six-year-old body shaking with tears before collapsing into sleep will never leave me.

That year, I broke all fundraising records and I broke S’s heart

It Was Never Just About the Kids

Let’s be honest, some of it was ego. Some of it was trying to be needed. Some of it was desperately clinging to a version of motherhood that felt noble, self-sacrificial, and social. When we moved here, I knew no-one. The PTA became my family. We understood one another. We had a common goal. And well, there’s a strange sisterhood in burnout. We were in our words, “a community.” And maybe we were.

We weren’t just planning events, we were in the group chat, we were insiders. There was gossip. There was drama. There were long threads about balloon arches. And someone always knew the real inside story. I liked being part of that; I really liked that.

Even when I told myself I wasn’t that kind of person, I was fully in it.

The Cost of Being All In

I was at the school so much, I didn’t have to sign in at the front desk anymore.

I had influence. I could request teachers and got them. But that same closeness may have contributed to my daughter’s learning disability being overlooked. I had built relationships, not objectivity. I was too close. I assumed she was fine because I knew everyone and they they knew me.

There were other costs too:
My weekends? Gone.
My evenings? Spoken for.
My identity? Tied to a committee.

“School” became not a place but a full on part of our lives. It invaded everything.

By the time we left the school and yes, we left (for a myriad of reason) it was like stepping out of a fog. The air felt different. I didn’t realize how deep I was in until I was out. It’s been a year and I’m only now starting to fully understand.

I Don’t Judge the Quiet Moms Anymore

Now I see the ones who keep to themselves differently. I relate to those who send in napkins in advance and not ice pops the morning of when asked. I understand when they don’t stay for the party.

I used to think they weren’t pulling their weight. But maybe they are protecting their peace. Maybe they had already learned the lesson I had to burn myself out to understand.

Just because you can do everything doesn’t mean you should.

I Still Volunteer. But on My Terms.

I still care. I still help. I’m just no longer trying to win MVP of unpaid labor.

I’ve retired from decorating the school gym at 1am and midnight cupcake runs. I’m putting my girls and my husband first and not doing it “for the kids.” No more bending over backwards for a system that will take everything you give and then ask for more. My family is my real inner circle.

I still love some of the PTA moms from my daughters’ old school. Truly. They were, and in some ways still are, my community.

I may not be “in” the inner circle anymore, but that’s okay. The ones I’m still connected to don’t see me as the mom distributing flyers, sending middle of the night emails or the one running around with the measuring tape. They just see me.

It’s been a learning process in friendship, in self-expectation, in self-awareness.

But most importantly, I’ve learned it’s okay not to always be it.

Author’s Note

Hi! Thank you so much for reading. If you avoid the PTA like the plague, or if you got sucked in so deep you got buried in a box of fake fall foliage I’d love to hear your comments. Or if you’re one of the quiet moms, I used to judge please consider this my formal apology. You had it figured out all along. 💌 No judgement.

Photo by hiva sharifi on Unsplash

I am.

I am mother of two girls. A wife of one man. Pet parent of one dog, two turtles and five fish that only love me at feeding time.

I grew up on the Jersey Shore, yes that Jersey Shore. I lost my mother suddenly at 14 and left home at 18. I made it to New York City by way of London. I swore I would live there forever. Yet. somehow, at 40, I became a Long Island suburbanite. I cried for two years, cycling through the 7 stages of grief, before finally coming to some semblance of acceptance.

I am an awful cook- except for chicken cutlets and bolognese. I am the gatekeeper of an arsenal of pediatric specialist appointments, a master at outsourcing, a walking Target cliche’ with fading tattoos, each one a fragment of my former self; the girl I swore I’d stay forever. Spoiler alert- she slipped, fell and faded away away taking the Long Island Railroad “home.”

I manage IEP meetings, homework and tutors. I am huntress and gatherer of glitter and trifold boards. I stock fishnet gloves, face paint and ribbons ready for a surprise spirit rally to erupt at any moment.

I handle the melt-downs, the tears, the girl drama. I give advice and take the door slams. I am the best mom in the world and the worst mother ever all in the span of a Taylor Swift song.

I am the documentarian, videographer, photographer and biographer of our lives. Our lives through my eyes. Pretending this counts as utilizing me NYU Film degree.

I’ve spent years on years scheduling private tennis lessons, researching camps and enrichment activities and occasionally baking Toll House cookies. I have perfected the art of holding my breathe when S kicks for the goal and when J mounts a horse. But I often forget to breath myself.

I am not crunchy but I do make chocolate covered quinoa. I monitor sugar intake. I sneak in vegetables, I buy organic potatoes. Go ahead, judge me. I could care less.

I know who likes which soap, shampoo and deodorant brand. I know J’s favorite washcloth is the blue one. I can name 15 Bed, Bath & Body Works mists, 5 Sol De Janerio sprays and a handful of miscellaneous perfumes by scent alone. And despite this superpower, I’m the one who deals with the fall out when the answer is “No.”

I am a law school drop out with multiple degrees and the memory of a career from way back when. I had dreams once, peppered with wasted potential and the occasional attempt to go big. Now I buy Pirate Booty in bulk.

In another life, I took aerial dance for fun and surfed in Costa Rica. I went to a foam party in Ibiza and drove across Italy with no map and no fear. I danced on bar tops and passed out in my own vomit on the Bowery at sunrise.

In this timeline, I plan “just because” movie nights fit to make Pinterest drool, aesthetic birthday parties and family ski/ snowboard trips that inevitably always end with me getting to know snow patrol and my kids having a fantastic time. (Cue my husband grumbling about the 7+ hour drive.)

But you know what? It’s comfortable, my life. It’s safe. It’s quiet.

I no longer drink- at all.

I don’t do drugs.

I traded in smoking almost two decades ago for yearly lung scans.

I have a semi-consistent Pilates habit, a gym membership and a cardiologist.

I suck at tennis but I still show up.

I have Botox. I wear gel nails. I haven’t seen my natural hair color since I was a tween.

I have a Tuesday cleaning crew.

Tuesdays are scared.

I am fiercely independent.

A survivor. A fighter. An optimist.

I regret nothing and everything all at the same time.

A hot mess buried under last year’s school supplies that I can’t bring myself to sort.

Mentally tangled as my hair which I usually don’t bother to brush.

An endless pool of stories. Some blurred by time, others vivid and heart-wrenching. All playing like a slow motion movie stuck on repeat in the bottomless ocean of my mind. While I-

I am gasping for air.

Once again driving with no map, no GPS, just decades older, none the wiser, carrying more responsibility.

This time I am not wearing designer sunglasses while taking slow drags from a Marlboro Ultralight overtired from the epicness of the night before, and not giving a fuck. No, this time-

This time I am panicking because my babysitter just found a “real job.”

Authors Note

I would love to know who you are too. No judgements.

Photo by Hannah Middleton on Unsplash

I’m So Bored

I made a mistake, a faux-pas if you will.

I texted my husband, three days into the start of day camp, “I’m bored.” Now, mind you this is a man who leaves the house at 6:30am, comes home between 7-8pm, often working nights and weekends, and sometimes crosses multiple time zones just to keep grinding. Here I am, a stay-at-home mom with both kids out of the house from 8:30-4:30 every weekday telling him “I’m bored.”

When I sent that text- mid-day, midweek, he was dumbfounded and probably a little annoyed. I mean, wouldn’t you be? I’m sure he perceived me as being unappreciative of his hard work and his role as our provider. And you know what? I get where he was coming from. I really do. But that wasn’t my intent. I was just…bored.

Now, to be clear. I am not complaining. I know I have a beautiful life that I am truly grateful for. I know I am blessed. And I do contribute to my household. I do mountains of laundry, cook (not very well but I try,) I manage schedules, back to school nights and doctors appointments- the where, when’s and why’s of our little world. But once I’ve made the beds, called the plumber and the hum of the dishwasher is singing softly in the background… I am so bored.

I didn’t picture life past the nap time snuggles, the baby wearing or making homemade organic baby food while those irritating songs played endlessly from plastic toys. (I really hated those toys.) I gently parented, shopped obsessively, let my little ones lead and co-slept my way into memory making bliss. I was completely absorbed in that world and I didn’t think that would end. But slowly, quietly it did. I didn’t even see it coming until suddenly it was gone. I didn’t have time to prepare. No-one warned me.

No longer can I fill the blank spaces with buying 786 pairs of Mary Janes to match the Janie & Jack outfits I bought the day before. No. My girls traded those for Nikes and Lululemon Hotty Hot Shorts… One click order and done. They don’t need me to hunt headbands and discover new playgrounds. The girls already know what “everyone is wearing” and soccer practice is always at the same field. The spoon feeding days are behind me. They come home ad open the fridge themselves.

Don’t get me wrong, I am still needed but in a much much different way. It’s a tightrope of offering advice without being extra, serving food and snacks to friends without becoming that mom and choosing the right playlist in the car (a specific area where I excel but my husband is failing miserably.) I can give hugs but only if no-one is looking.

And in those quiet spaces where I’m no longer constantly needed, I keep hearing the same advice on repeat. “Self-care is important.” (Still not 100 on what that means exactly. Does showering count?) Then there’s my personal all-time favorite “Find a hobby.” I tried. Baking. Check. Sewing. Check. Crafting. Been there, done that. Yoga. Yep. My basement is a graveyard of failed craft project, stray sequins and three yoga mats.

The other day I was on the phone with my therapist, mid-ramble, overwhelmed, lost, treading in an emotional sea of wet bathing suits and butterfly skirts when I get a text alert. It’s a photo of my oldest daughter, S, sun kissed ad radiant at the helm of a boat, sparkling like the sea behind her. She’s out there living fully. In that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if I am?

I’m so proud of S. She is everything I hoped for and more; she’s incredible. But as I sat there, phone in one hand having my regularly scheduled mid-life existential crisis, I started to think. She’s charting new territory, and I’m over here trying to remember what I did before I was everything to someone else. Perhaps I should follow her lead.

So today I challenged my inner warrior and attempted to combat the boredom in the best ways I knew how:

• Filled Amazon cart (did not check out)

• Went to Whole Foods and taught a stranger how shuck corn in the produce aisle

• Bought a watermelon and an assortment of yogurt

• Made a Stromboli

• Finally putting away the laundry I’ve been avoiding for a week (major win)

Maybe I’m not bored. Maybe I’m just… underwhelmed. Maybe it’s the monotony, the mundane rhythm of rinse and repeat, the endless grocery aisle wandering.

My husband aspires to live the life his wife and kids live. One where summer afternoons are spent on the helm of a watercraft (his kids) and the other spent “bored” (his wife/me.) And I? I envy his ability to give us this life, his career, the fact he has somewhere to be other than the home, adults to talk to and a reason not to wear sweats- even if it is a cute matching set.

I’m an “Xennial” mom, born caught in the crossfire so to speak. Now I am attempting to emotionally validate my way through the “slays” and catastrophes of my daughters’ preteen years while helping care for aging parents, and confronting the slow realization that maybe motherhood has become my identity. I have no idea what I am doing or who I am.

I am not here to give advice. No, this is a love letter to the in-between years no-one warned us about. This is my valentine to the closet of designer shoes collecting dust, where my bedtime is dusk and I loose my phone and my patience daily.

If you’ve ever felt lost between a typewriter and TikTok or cried after donating toys or eaten cookies in the closet, this is the place for you. There are no maps or guidebooks, though wouldn’t it be nice if there was. Only endless theme days, non-stop Amazon returns, too many carbs and a semi-consistent Pilates habit.

This is the real mom vibe.