Don’t Romanticize My Motherhood

I am tired.

Actually, I am exhausted.

I look at my little girl, drifting off to sleep in my arms, and immediately I feel like crying. And it is a difficult kind of crying to explain, because it does not have just one cause. It is a cry of happiness, disbelief, and love. But sometimes, it is also a cry of despair.

Yes, despair.

Because my body is different, my hormones are out of control, and my mind, which can barely remember whether I had lunch, is already planning her fifteenth birthday party. Meanwhile, here in the present, I try to decipher an entire world through a single cry: Is she hungry? Is she in pain? Is she sleepy? Does she need a diaper change? Does she want to be held? Is it colic? Does she simply want to be close to me?

And when I think I have figured it out, I realize that maybe I got it wrong.

If I think she is in pain, I immediately wonder whether I am letting my daughter go hungry. If I offer her another bottle, I later realize that maybe she only wanted to rest her little tummy against my chest to ease some discomfort. But before I reach any conclusion, I have already crossed an entire sea of possibilities. I have already tried, made mistakes, changed my mind, and blamed myself.

And guilt—oh, guilt comes quickly.

How did I not notice sooner? How could I think it was one thing when it was another? How did I let my baby cry? My poor little princess.

Then I cry too.

Because this is who I am now: a mother trying to get everything right, wanting to be perfect, failing—because no one can be perfect—and still blaming herself as though she were supposed to handle everything with calmness, intuition, and a smile on her face.

And that is exhausting.

So exhausting.

As though the pressure that comes with being a first-time mother were not enough—especially an impatient, anxious mother, full of expectations and trying to control the uncontrollable—there is also the pressure of the world.

Every time someone asks whether I am breastfeeding, I take a breath before answering. Not because I am ashamed of the answer, but because, so often, I already know it will be followed by a judgment disguised as advice.

Because in motherhood, it seems that even when we are right, we are still wrong.

If I give her breast milk, someone asks why I do not supplement with formula.

If I give her formula, someone asks why I am giving her formula.

If I pump, someone asks why I do not nurse her directly.

If I give her a bottle, someone talks about bonding.

If I keep trying, I am making myself suffer for no reason.

If I stop, I gave up too soon.

There is always a question. A look. A suggestion. Someone else’s experience. An absolute truth spoken by someone who is not living through my postpartum period, in my body, with my baby, inside my home, in the middle of my sleepless nights.

And I know: motherhood is beautiful.

It truly is.

It is unique. It is profound. It is transformative. There is beauty in her scent, in the weight of her little body asleep in my arms, in her tiny hand reaching for my clothes, in the rare silence after a crying spell. There is love in every detail. A love so immense that sometimes it is even frightening.

But do not use that beauty to erase everything else.

Do not romanticize my motherhood for me.

Do not turn my exhaustion into poetry before offering me a glass of water. Do not call it a “beautiful phase” when, on some days, I get through it by counting the minutes until I can take a shower. Do not put a bow on my exhaustion just because there is a beautiful sleeping baby in my arms.

Before telling me that it all goes by so quickly, ask me how I am getting through it right now.

Before telling me that I will miss it someday, acknowledge that today may be hard.

Before defending an ideal version of motherhood, look at the real mother standing here: disheveled, sensitive, confused, trying, failing, learning, and loving so intensely that it hurts.

I do not need anyone to romanticize my choices.

I need them to respect them.

I do not need anyone to turn my postpartum period into a beautiful scene so that it fits the world’s idea of motherhood. I need people to understand that love and exhaustion can exist in the same embrace. That gratitude and despair can share the same tears. That a mother can love her daughter deeply and still be at her limit.

My motherhood is not less beautiful because it is hard.

It is not less real because it includes formula, bottles, a breast pump, guilt, fear, tears, and sleepless nights.

It is not less loving because I cannot handle everything.

So please, do not romanticize my motherhood.

Support me.

Respect me.

Offer help.

Keep your judgment to yourself.

Because I am already carrying so much.

And even though I am tired, even though I am exhausted, even though I feel inadequate in so many moments, I am still here. With her in my arms. With my heart outside my chest. Trying, every day, to be the best mother I can be.

Not the perfect mother.

The mother I am able to be.

Her mother.