My mother passed away unexpectedly in 2013 at the age of 67, just when our older daughter was two and our younger one was still a baby. Before her death, my mom provided a lot of support, helping to take care of the girls while I worked. I would go to my parents’ home nearby and work in the cozy loft upstairs, while my parents read to, cuddled, and played with my daughters. Looking back, it was a precious time—one where I felt supported and part of a community, reminiscent of the age-old village life. Plus, I cherished those moments of sharing lunch and coffee breaks with my beloved mom. It was the kind of motherhood I had hoped for.
After my mother’s death, everything seemed to fall apart. I felt isolated. Motherhood became an overwhelming and isolating experience, like a vast ocean where I was struggling to stay afloat in a flimsy little boat.
Aside from a brief part-time on-site job for a contract, I have always worked from home (and still do). In the early days of being a new mom, my work hours varied between 10 to 40 hours a week, fluctuating in terms of success and sanity as the days went by.
The initial excitement of working from home quickly faded once I realized that handling work and parenting at the same time is nearly impossible. You come to this realization about 14 minutes into your first day of trying to work while looking after one or more kids.
Amid feedings, diaper changes, naps, squabbles, and endless demands of “I’m huuuuunnngry” along with various requests and scrapes, any semblance of productivity felt purely accidental or a result of desperately putting on a Scooby-Do episode at 11 AM and locking myself in my room.
Many days, I turned down opportunities to engage with my girls because of looming deadlines. Other times, I agreed to their wishes out of guilt or genuine desire to spend time with them, only to find myself working late into the night, often until 2 AM, trying to fit in a workday that had begun at 9 PM.
I constantly felt like a mediocre parent and a mediocre employee. At times, I truly was. I cried out of frustration, pleading for some peace to collect my thoughts. I often missed early morning Zoom meetings, forgot cupcakes for school birthday celebrations, confused due dates, and stumbled through responsibilities, whether they were work or play. That’s just the reality of it.
But there were also days filled with joy—moments of profound connection and grace. Some experiences were so fulfilling that they felt otherworldly, while other days felt like I was plummeting from an airplane without a parachute. My children have been my greatest teachers. This teaching has been intense, akin to how doing 100 squats can transform your body: growth often comes through struggle. Like most personal development, it has primarily happened in tough times.
Speaking the Truth
There were times I resented being a stay-at-home mom. I know this sentiment is often frowned upon. It usually gets met with comments like, But kids are amazing, for sure. So amazing. Best thing that ever happened to me. There seems to be an expectation to cover our messy feelings with a reassuring statement that glosses over the uncomfortable truths.
I don’t feel it’s necessary to dilute my genuine experiences with tidier narratives. So, I’ll stand by my truth: sometimes I resented being a stay-at-home mom. There were moments I feared losing my identity—my creativity, my time to write, the chance to care for my entire self, my need for solitude and silence, my friendships—everything was getting overshadowed by the identity of “Mom,” which often felt too big for me to carry.
Research often points out that our greatest joy lies in truly being present. While that’s valid, it’s also true that sometimes, it was exceedingly difficult to manage it all.
There are indeed women who deeply love being full-time mothers, who turn it into an art form, feeling inspired and reenergized by their role. I admire and respect them immensely. I love to witness people passionately living out their purpose.
On the other hand, I often felt like a character in a 90s commercial— you know, the one where someone says, I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV.
Some days, I fully embraced the role, completely immersed in being “Mom.” Other days, I felt like I was just rehearsing lines, frantically searching for guidance, hoping for someone off-camera to call, Cut! And…that’s a wrap, everyone. Great job today. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?
There were times I felt overwhelmed, exhausted, and frantic. I often watched my husband leave for work, free of responsibilities, while I was home with a newborn and a toddler. He had one job for a full eight hours surrounded by adult company, recognition, annual bonuses, and healthcare benefits.
Well-meaning people who had recently retired would come to me, probably just back from a luxurious vacation, and say comforting things. There I was, with my brand-new baby and a teething toddler, feeling disheveled and exhausted, being told to “just enjoy every moment.” While I understood their good intentions, I sometimes thought, Come on, read the room.
I’m not sure what kind of mom that makes me, but I know I’m not alone.
I don’t think it’s necessary for me (or any mom, any woman) to view these feelings of frustration, unfulfillment, or longing as wasted time. They are not feelings I should feel ashamed of. They simply… are.
I don’t believe it’s essential for me (or any mom, any woman) to see these moments of struggle as wasted time. They’re feelings I shouldn’t be ashamed of. They simply… exist. They are as natural and human as the times of joy and happiness. They have their own lessons and seasons. All these experiences fit within the larger framework of motherhood. I recognize that grappling with this complex identity doesn’t diminish my love for my kids.
Even now, when I see new mothers at church or in our community, I often check in to see how they’re really doing. I remind them, “Parenting is a beautiful gift, but it’s completely okay to not love every single second of it.” Sometimes they laugh in agreement, and other times, they open up and cry. When we keep our struggles to ourselves, even when they’re common and relatable, we can feel defective for not experiencing what we believe we should feel.
Speaking candidly about these experiences can be a form of gentle healing, I’ve discovered.
Expressing the truth can indeed be a gentle source of healing, I’ve found.
Entering a New Phase of Motherhood
In 2018, I found myself facing the unexpected experience of having entire days to myself for the first time in eight years. While I know some women have managed it for much longer—and I admire them for it—eight years still feels like quite a stretch. In terms of my introverted nature, that period felt like a century. I was amazed at how quickly time had flown. At this point, I had a second grader and a kindergartener. The seasoned retirees I’d encountered on river cruises were definitely correct about one thing: it all passed as swiftly as if I were holding a handful of water.
Prior to becoming a mother, I cherished spending hours in solitude each day. That quiet time was precious. So, it was a shock when that space quickly disappeared, with every moment and every inch of my body suddenly occupied and demanded. Nearly a decade later, the re-emergence of that quiet space felt just as disorienting. This time, I was a completely changed person, and the world around me had transformed too. I needed to learn how to navigate silence all over again.
The night before our youngest daughter Stella’s first day of kindergarten, we cuddled in the dark before bed. (Just for the record, those nighttime snuggles are probably my absolute favorite.) We discussed her upcoming day, sharing our feelings about it. She had been buzzing with excitement all day, eagerly jumping up and down while talking about starting school. We reminisced about the last five and a half years we had spent together.
I expressed my gratitude for our time together, and I truly meant it. I also shared how happy I was for her to embark on this new adventure, which I genuinely felt.
I asked how she was feeling. She responded, “I’m feeling nervi-cited, Mom.” My girls had come up with this inventive word to capture the blend of emotions associated with facing something new and exciting: nervous + excited.
The next morning, when we dropped her off, I saw her lively energy wane as she stepped into the bustling classroom. Our kids attend an immersion school, so the teachers spoke to her in Chinese, a language she wasn’t familiar with yet. She didn’t recognize anyone, and everything around her felt unfamiliar. She appeared dazed, on the verge of tears—not from sadness but from confusion.
In that moment, she mirrored how I had felt countless times throughout my life, especially in those eight years preceding. My heart swelled with empathy.
I knelt down by the small tables and chairs. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? What’s going on in your heart right now?”
She looked at the table, deep in thought. “I’m feeling nervi-cited. And a little shy.” I reassured her that what she was feeling was completely normal for such a significant day. She nodded.
She was unusually quiet, not at all like her typical enthusiastic self. “Mom?” she said, still gazing down, trying to summon her courage. “There’s something else. With the nervi-cited and the shy. It’s miss. I’m going to miss you. Nervi-cited-shy-miss. All of that.”
Indeed. All of that.