I was folding laundry the other night, the never-ending pile that somehow regenerates the moment you think you’ve conquered it, when Ellie wandered over and asked why I was still awake. “Just catching up, sweetheart,” I told her, smoothing out one of her favorite shirts.
She nodded, gave me a sleepy hug, and padded back to bed. And it hit me: she has no idea that this is just one of a hundred quiet things I do after she and Milo are asleep. The meal planning. The mental gymnastics of coordinating appointments. The emotional labor of holding space for everyone’s big feelings while managing my own.
Our kids see us, of course they do. But they don’t yet understand the weight of the invisible work, the small sacrifices woven into the fabric of daily life. And honestly? That’s okay. They’re not meant to see it all right now.
But someday, when they’re folding their own kids’ laundry at midnight or putting their needs on hold for the thousandth time, they’ll get it. They’ll realize what we quietly gave up, held back, or carried so they could grow up feeling safe, seen, and loved.
Here are seven of those quiet sacrifices good mothers make, the ones our children won’t fully understand until they’re standing in our shoes.
1) Putting your own body’s needs on the back burner
How many times have you pushed through exhaustion because someone needed you? Ignored the urge to use the bathroom because a toddler was melting down? Eaten cold leftovers standing at the counter because sitting down felt impossible?
When Milo was a baby, I remember feeling constantly hungry, constantly tired, and constantly needed. I was breastfeeding around the clock, and my body was literally giving itself to keep him nourished. But even beyond that stage, the pattern stuck. I’d skip meals if dinner prep was chaotic. I’d hold my bladder through an entire farmers’ market trip because stopping felt like too much hassle.
Your body becomes secondary. Not because you don’t care about it, but because in the moment, their needs feel more urgent.
Our kids don’t see us postponing doctor’s appointments, pushing through headaches, or functioning on broken sleep. They just see Mom, always there, always capable. But one day they’ll realize: you ran yourself ragged so they didn’t have to feel any lack.
2) Letting go of the social life you once had
I used to be the friend who’d show up to everything. Last-minute dinner plans, weekend road trips, late-night conversations on someone’s porch. That version of me feels like a lifetime ago.
When you become a mother, your social world shrinks. Not because you stop caring about friendships, but because the logistics of maintaining them become almost impossible. Finding childcare. Coordinating schedules. Working around nap times and bedtimes. It’s exhausting.
Some friends drift away naturally. Others don’t quite understand why you can’t just “get a sitter” and come out like you used to. And honestly, even when you do manage to arrange an evening out, half your brain is still at home wondering if Milo went down okay or if Ellie remembered to brush her teeth.
You trade girls’ nights for monthly craft playdates where conversations happen in fragments between wiping noses and refereeing toy disputes.
Your kids won’t understand this sacrifice until they’re navigating their own friendships while parenting. Until they’re the ones declining invitations, feeling the sting of being left out, and realizing that motherhood is often lonelier than they ever imagined.
3) Releasing the career dreams you once held tightly
I loved teaching. I loved my kindergarten classroom with its organized chaos, the smell of crayons, and the way five-year-olds see the world. But after Ellie was born, going back full-time felt impossible. The hours. The mental load. The guilt of leaving her.
So I pivoted. I built a writing career from scratch during nap times, squeezing work into the margins of motherhood. And while I’m grateful for the flexibility, there’s also grief. Grief for the teacher I might have become. For the promotions I’ll never pursue. For the clear career trajectory I traded for something more fluid and uncertain.
Some mothers leave careers entirely. Others scale back, take lower-paying jobs, or put graduate degrees on hold indefinitely. We make these choices willingly, but that doesn’t mean they don’t cost us something.
Our kids see us working at the kitchen table or sneaking in emails after bedtime, but they don’t yet grasp what we walked away from. The potential income. The professional identity. The version of ourselves that might have existed if we’d chosen differently.
One day they’ll understand that we chose them. Not because career didn’t matter, but because they mattered more.
4) Absorbing everyone’s emotions while managing your own
Motherhood means becoming the emotional anchor for your entire household. You’re the one who stays calm when everyone else is falling apart. The one who holds space for tantrums, sibling conflicts, and big feelings, often while your own emotions are screaming for attention.
I dealt with postpartum anxiety after Milo was born, but I didn’t fully process it until months later. I was too busy making sure everyone else felt okay. Too busy being the steady presence they needed.
There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from constantly regulating not just your emotions but everyone else’s too. Ellie’s disappointment over a cancelled playdate becomes your problem to soothe. Milo’s frustration when the tower falls becomes your opportunity to model patience. Matt’s hard day becomes something you make space for, even when you’re barely holding it together yourself.
As clinical psychologist Dr. Becky Kennedy has noted, children need us to be the calm in their storm, but that means we’re constantly weathering their emotional chaos while keeping our own under wraps.
Our kids don’t realize we’re doing this. They just know that when the world feels overwhelming, Mom somehow makes it better. They won’t understand until they’re the ones absorbing their own children’s feelings, biting back their frustration, and wondering when anyone will ask how they’re doing.
5) Giving up spontaneity and the freedom to just be
Remember when you could wake up on a Saturday with zero plans and just see where the day took you? When you could decide at 8 PM to drive somewhere for ice cream? When your time was just yours?
Motherhood is the end of that kind of freedom.
Everything requires planning now. Leaving the house means packing snacks, water bottles, diapers, a change of clothes, entertainment for the car. A simple grocery run becomes a strategic operation. And forget about those spontaneous weekend trips. Now you’re coordinating nap schedules, meal times, and whether the destination is actually kid-friendly.
Even your thoughts aren’t entirely your own anymore. There’s always a running mental checklist: Did I respond to the preschool email? Does Ellie need new shoes? When’s Milo’s next wellness check?
You trade spontaneity for structure because that’s what keeps everything running. But some days you miss the version of yourself who could just be, who could sit in a coffee shop for hours without checking the time, or take a walk without a stroller and a destination in mind.
Your kids will grow up thinking this is just how life works. They won’t realize until much later that you used to be someone who moved through the world differently. Someone who had time to wander.
6) Choosing peace over being right
There are so many moments in motherhood where you could dig your heels in, prove your point, and “win” the argument. But you don’t. You let things go because preserving the relationship matters more than being right.
When Matt and I disagree about parenting approaches, I’ve learned to ask myself: Is this worth the conflict? Sometimes yes. Often no.
When Ellie insists on wearing her rain boots on a sunny day, I could explain, again, why that doesn’t make sense. Or I could just let her wear the boots and save my energy for battles that actually matter.
This kind of sacrifice is nearly invisible. It looks like backing down, staying quiet, or compromising when you’d rather stand your ground. But it’s actually a form of wisdom, choosing connection over control, relationship over righteousness.
I’ve been reading Rudá Iandê’s book Laughing in the Face of Chaos, and his insights about letting go of the need to be perfect really resonated with me here. He writes, “When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that’s delightfully real.” That’s exactly what this sacrifice is about. Choosing real connection over some perfect version of parenting where you never bend.
Your kids don’t see these micro-decisions. They don’t realize how many times you bit your tongue, swallowed your pride, or chose the path of least resistance not because you’re weak, but because you’re intentional about what really matters.
One day, when they’re navigating their own relationships and family dynamics, they’ll remember how you handled conflict. How you made space for others’ perspectives. How you modeled what it looks like to love people more than you love being right.
7) Carrying the weight of worry they can’t see
The worry is constant and invisible. It lives in the background of everything you do.
Are they developing normally? Are we doing enough? Too much? Is that cough just a cold or something more serious? Should I be concerned about how Ellie plays with other kids? Is Milo meeting his milestones?
The mental load of motherhood isn’t just about logistics. It’s about the emotional weight of caring so deeply that you can’t fully relax. Even when everything is fine, there’s a part of your brain running scenarios, planning for contingencies, and staying alert to potential problems.
I wake up sometimes at 2 AM with my mind racing through the next day’s schedule or replaying a parenting moment I wish I’d handled differently. The anxiety I thought I’d worked through after Milo was born still surfaces in these middle-of-the-night worry sessions.
Your kids sleep soundly, trusting that everything will be okay. And it will be, largely because you’re lying awake making sure of it.
They won’t understand this until they’re the ones lying awake, worrying about their own children, finally realizing that you did this for years. That you carried the weight of their wellbeing like a stone you could never quite put down.
Final thoughts
Writing this stirred up a lot for me. Gratitude for my own mom, who I’m only now beginning to understand, and a deep appreciation for this season of life, even with all its invisible sacrifices.
Our children won’t fully see these sacrifices until they’re grown. And honestly, that’s as it should be. They don’t need to carry the weight of our choices. They just need to feel loved, seen, and secure enough to eventually leave and build lives of their own.
But for us, the mothers doing the quiet work, making the invisible sacrifices, there’s something powerful in naming what we give. Not for recognition or applause, but simply for the truth of it.
We see you. Even if they can’t quite yet.
