12/03/2025
I can’t tell you exactly why—maybe because my eldest baby is turning 21 next month (how did I get here?)—but I’ve been thinking a lot about younger me these past few days.
Specifically, 29-year-old me. The stay-at-home mama who intentionally put her physio career on the back burner to focus on her babies and home.
Born just 17 months apart, my first two babies were the greatest gift. Being their mama was a dream come true.
But wow, that season was hard. I remember the intensity of it—the “Groundhog Day” feeling, the long days and interrupted nights.
The desperation and confusion of knowing I was exactly where I wanted and needed to be… yet still longing for a break.
I look back now, and I feel sad. Sad that I can’t go back in time to just sit, laugh, and play with those two little girls. To tell them how precious, amazing, and loved they are.
To worry less about following all the “rules” I thought I had to and instead, trust my own intuition. But I also know how hard that is when you’re completely exhausted and tapped out.
I’m sorry that I didn’t live up to my own impossible expectations of being “the perfect mama.” I did my best. But oh, how I made mistakes.
And as I sit here writing this, I realize—29-year-old me needs my compassion. My love. She needs to know that perfection in motherhood is a myth. A lie.
She was doing it.
She worried about containing the mess, tackling the laundry pile, figuring out what was for dinner. But I want to remind her to worry less. That spaghetti on toast is just fine, and no one else knows (or cares) if the clothes in the drawers are folded or not.
I want to tell her it’s okay to collapse on the couch and just be with her babies. That the days may feel long, but the years truly are short.
She needs to know that her two eldest girls will grow into beautiful, independent, strong leaders—who will follow their dreams and forge their own paths.
That two more babies will come to complete the family. That together, the six of us will be imperfect, but deeply connected by love that cannot be broken.
That life won’t be easy—because struggle is part of being human.
…But she is stronger than she knows.
I want to wrap my arms around that 29-year-old version of me and whisper, You are enough. You always were.
She doesn’t need to carry the weight of trying to be perfect—just present. Just loving. Just real.
And if I could, I’d thank her. Thank her for showing up, for pouring her heart into those little lives, for embracing both the joy and the struggle. Because every exhausted bedtime story, every tear wiped, every deep breath taken in the middle of chaos—it all mattered.
And now, from where I stand, I see it so clearly: She was never failing. She was always growing.
And that? That is more than enough.
