You know that dream you had before kids? The one that made your heart race when you thought about it late at night?
I had mine too. Seven years of teaching kindergarten, and I was going to revolutionize early childhood education. I had notebooks full of ideas, conference applications half-filled out, and this burning vision of opening my own nature-based learning center.
Then my daughter arrived, and everything shifted. Not in a bad way—just in a way that redirected every ounce of energy I had toward keeping this tiny human alive and thriving.
Five years later, with two kids and a writing career I’ve pieced together during nap times, I’ve had countless conversations with other parents who’ve walked similar paths.
The thing is, we don’t really talk about the quiet regrets. Not because we regret our children—never that—but because there’s this tender ache for the versions of ourselves we left behind. And pretending those feelings don’t exist doesn’t make them disappear.
1. The career that could have been
Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I’d gone back to the classroom after my first was born. Would I have that nature school by now? Would I be presenting at those conferences I used to dream about?
This isn’t about wishing my kids away. It’s about acknowledging that professional dreams don’t just vanish when we become parents—they hover in the periphery, especially when we see former colleagues thriving in spaces we once occupied.
The hardest part? Watching opportunities pass by that you know you would have grabbed with both hands before. Job postings that make your heart skip, knowing the hours would never work with school pickup.
Projects that need the kind of focus you haven’t had since 2019.
2. The creative pursuits left gathering dust
Before kids, did you have that one thing that lit you up? Maybe it was painting, music, writing fiction, or building furniture in your garage?
Mine was curriculum design—creating these elaborate, hands-on learning experiences that made kids’ eyes light up. Now my creative outlet is squeezing in blog posts while my two-year-old naps, hoping he stays asleep long enough for me to finish a thought.
There’s grief in watching those talents atrophy. Sure, we find new creative outlets (hello, turning cardboard boxes into spaceships), but it’s not quite the same as losing yourself in your craft for hours, is it?
3. The education that got paused indefinitely
“I’ll go back and finish when the kids are older.” How many of us have said that?
Whether it’s a degree, certification, or just learning for the joy of it, educational dreams often get shelved in the chaos of early parenthood.
By the time “older” arrives, the landscape has changed, the requirements have shifted, or honestly? The momentum is just gone.
I watch friends who continued their education while I was deep in the baby years, and there’s this pang. Not jealousy exactly, but something close. A wondering about the knowledge I might have gained, the connections I might have made.
4. The adventures never taken
Remember when you could just… go? Pack a bag, book a flight, chase an opportunity across the country?
Now every decision runs through the filter of school schedules, nap times, and whether this particular adventure involves changing diapers in questionable public restrooms.
Those big dreams—hiking through Peru, living abroad for a year, taking that cross-country road trip—they shift from “someday soon” to “maybe when they’re in college.” And while family adventures are beautiful in their own right, they’re different from the solo journeys that shape who we are independent of our role as parents.
5. The financial independence that slipped away
This one stings because nobody talks about it. The shift from contributing equally to depending on a partner’s income, or struggling alone if you’re single.
I built my teaching career carefully, proudly. Now I piece together income from writing, always calculating whether working more hours would even cover childcare costs. There’s a particular vulnerability in losing your financial footing, especially when you worked so hard to establish it.
6. The identity that got buried under “mom” or “dad”
Who were you before? Sometimes I genuinely forget.
At the playground, I’m “Ellie’s mom.” At school events, same thing. Even with friends, conversations orbit around kid stuff because that’s the common ground, the safe territory.
But underneath, there’s still that person who had opinions about things beyond screen time and organic snacks. The one who read books without pictures, who had hobbies that didn’t involve finger paint. Finding her again feels like archaeology—carefully brushing away layers to discover what’s still intact underneath.
7. The body that never quite recovered
Not just the physical changes (though those are real), but the relationship with your body that shifted.
Maybe you were an athlete, a dancer, someone who moved through the world with confidence in what your body could do. Now it’s different. Not worse necessarily, but different in ways that catch you off guard when you glimpse yourself in store windows.
The regret here isn’t about vanity. It’s about mourning a version of yourself that felt strong in a particular way, that had time for self-care beyond quick showers while a toddler bangs on the door.
8. The relationships that couldn’t weather the change
Friendships that thrived on spontaneity don’t always survive the transition to parenthood. Those friends who called you for last-minute concerts, who were your thinking partners in big dreams—where are they now?
Some drifted naturally. Others ended abruptly when you canceled one too many times. The regret isn’t just about losing friends; it’s about losing parts of yourself that only existed in those relationships.
9. The freedom to be spontaneous and selfish
Remember deciding to stay in bed until noon just because? Or changing plans on a whim? Or being beautifully, gloriously selfish with your time?
There’s something profound about losing the ability to be spontaneous. Every decision now has ripple effects—babysitters to arrange, schedules to coordinate, small people who need consistency and routine.
The regret here is subtle but persistent. It lives in those moments when you just want to run to the store alone, or read a book uninterrupted, or have a thought that doesn’t get derailed by someone needing a snack.
Finding grace in the grief
Here’s what I’m learning: these regrets don’t make us bad parents. They make us human.
Acknowledging what we’ve lost doesn’t diminish what we’ve gained. Both can exist simultaneously—the profound love for our children and the quiet grief for our former selves.
Some days, when my five-year-old brings me leaves she’s carefully sorted by size and color, or when my two-year-old abandons his cushion fort to crawl into my lap, the trade-off feels worth it. Other days, when I see former colleagues doing exactly what I once dreamed of, it doesn’t.
And that’s okay.
We’re allowed to love our children fiercely while also mourning the dreams we set aside. We’re allowed to feel both grateful and wistful, fulfilled and restless.
Maybe someday we’ll pick up some of those dreams again, reshape them to fit our new reality. Maybe we won’t. Either way, naming these quiet regrets—bringing them into the light instead of hiding them in shame—that’s where healing begins.
Because the truth is, we’re not just parents. We’re whole people with complex feelings, carrying both joy and sorrow, dreams realized and dreams deferred.
And acknowledging that? That’s perhaps the most honest thing we can do.
