There’s this moment right after you have your first baby, maybe you’re in the hospital bed, maybe you’re home on the couch, when it hits you: nobody actually told you what this would be like.
Sure, people warned about the sleepless nights and the diaper blowouts. They mentioned the crying (theirs and the baby’s). But the deeper stuff? The identity shift, the guilt, the way you’d question every single decision? That part stayed quiet.
I remember holding Ellie for the first time, feeling this overwhelming mix of love and absolute terror. I thought I was prepared. I’d read the books, taken the classes, folded all those tiny onesies. But the real lessons? Those came later, usually at 2 AM or in the middle of a toddler meltdown at the grocery store.
Looking back now with two kids and a few years under my belt, there are things I wish someone had pulled me aside and said out loud. Not to scare me, but to prepare me for the internal work that comes with raising little humans.
So here’s what I wish I’d known.
1) You’ll grieve the person you were before
Nobody talks about this one enough. Becoming a parent isn’t just an addition to your life. It’s a complete reorganization of your identity.
I used to be the person who could spontaneously decide to spend a Saturday hiking or reading in a coffee shop for hours. I had time to think through my thoughts, to process my feelings. Then Ellie arrived, and suddenly I was someone’s entire world.
It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
You’ll miss parts of your old life. The freedom, the simplicity, the ability to finish a hot cup of coffee. And that’s okay. Grief and love can exist in the same space. You’re allowed to adore your children while also missing who you were before them.
The transition felt especially hard around the time Ellie was six months old. I’d left my teaching job and was home full-time, and I remember looking in the mirror one morning and barely recognizing myself. Not just physically, but deeper than that.
Give yourself permission to mourn. You’re not being ungrateful. You’re being human.
2) Your relationship with your partner will fundamentally change
Matt and I used to have long Saturday mornings together, lingering over breakfast and making plans for the day. We’d go on hikes, have actual conversations that didn’t get interrupted.
Then we had kids.
Suddenly we were tag-teaming diaper changes and passing each other in the hallway like ships in the night. Our conversations became transactional: “Did you feed him?” “When was her last nap?” “Can you grab the wipes?”
I thought we were losing each other.
What I didn’t realize is that we weren’t losing our relationship. It was just evolving into something different. We had to learn a new language of connection: the quick squeeze of a hand while buckling car seats, the knowing look across the room when Milo is having a meltdown, the ten minutes on the couch after bedtime where we actually see each other again.
The romance doesn’t disappear. It just gets quieter, more intentional. We had to learn to protect it, to choose each other even when we were exhausted.
Matt still makes Saturday pancakes, and that weekly ritual has become its own kind of love language. We don’t need grand gestures anymore. We need consistency and small moments of tenderness.
3) Parenting will bring up all your own childhood wounds
This one caught me completely off guard.
I grew up in a household where emotions weren’t really discussed. My parents were good people who provided for us, but feelings stayed buried. When I was upset, I was told to “get over it” or “stop being dramatic.”
Fast forward to me as a parent, and suddenly Ellie is having a meltdown about her shoes being on the wrong feet, and I feel this surge of frustration rising in my chest. That old voice from my childhood whispers: “Just make her stop crying.”
But I don’t want to parent that way.
As noted by Rudá Iandê in his book “Laughing in the Face of Chaos,” “Until our intellect stops fighting our emotions, there can be no true integration between these two essential aspects of our being.” Reading his insights helped me realize I was still at war with my own emotional experiences, and that internal battle was affecting how I showed up for my kids.
Your children will trigger parts of you that you thought were healed. They’ll expose the cracks in your foundation. And that’s actually a gift, even though it doesn’t feel like one in the moment.
Parenting has forced me to examine my own patterns, to ask myself why I react certain ways, to do the work I’d been avoiding for years. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s also made me a more whole person.
4) “Perfect” is a myth that will steal your joy
Before I had kids, I had this vision of the kind of parent I’d be. I’d make all organic meals from scratch, never raise my voice, have a beautifully organized home with Montessori-inspired toys and daily nature walks.
Reality looked different.
There were days when Milo ate crackers for dinner because I was too tired to cook. Days when I snapped at Ellie over something small and then felt guilty for hours. Days when the house was a disaster and I just let it be.
I spent so much energy in those early years chasing an impossible standard. Every time I scrolled through social media and saw other parents who seemed to have it all together, I felt like I was failing.
Here’s what I wish I’d known: those perfectly curated moments are just that. Moments. They’re not the full picture.
The real work of parenting happens in the messy, unglamorous in-between spaces. It’s in how you repair after losing your patience. It’s in choosing connection over perfection. It’s in the scrambled-eggs-for-dinner nights when everyone is tired but you’re all together.
I finally had to make peace with “good enough.” My kids don’t need a perfect mother. They need a present one who’s willing to grow alongside them.
5) You can’t pour from an empty cup (and you’ll try anyway)
Everyone says this. Every parenting article, every well-meaning friend. “Take care of yourself!” they chirp.
But nobody tells you how impossibly hard it is to actually do that when you have small children who need you constantly.
I remember those early months with Ellie when I barely showered, let alone did anything resembling self-care. The idea of “taking time for myself” felt laughable. Who had time? Who had energy?
I ran myself into the ground trying to be everything for everyone. I told myself I’d rest later, after bedtime, on the weekend, someday.
Eventually, my body forced the issue. I developed postpartum anxiety after Milo was born, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had to learn, really learn, that taking care of myself wasn’t selfish. It was necessary.
Now I’m fiercely protective of my early morning coffee before the kids wake up. I take walks when Matt can watch them. I go to therapy. I say no to things that drain me.
Your kids need a whole, healthy parent more than they need a martyr. I wish I’d believed that sooner.
6) Comparison will poison your confidence
When Ellie was a baby, I joined all the parent groups online. I thought they’d be supportive communities where we’d share the journey together.
Instead, I found myself constantly comparing. Other babies were sleeping through the night while ours wasn’t. Other moms had their pre-baby bodies back. Other families seemed to have figured out routines and schedules while we were just surviving.
Every milestone became a measurement of whether I was doing okay. Was Ellie walking early enough? Talking enough? Did I breastfeed long enough? Was I too strict? Too lenient?
The comparison trap nearly broke me.
What finally helped was stepping back and remembering that every child is different, every family is different, and there’s no single “right way” to do this. The family down the street who looks like they have it all together? They’re struggling with something too. We all are.
I had to learn to trust my instincts, to listen to what worked for our family rather than following someone else’s blueprint. That took time and a lot of unlearning.
Your journey is yours alone. The sooner you can embrace that truth, the lighter you’ll feel.
7) The days are long but the years are short (and you’ll feel both simultaneously)
This is the most cliché thing parents say, and it’s also the most devastatingly true.
There are afternoons when I check the clock thinking it must be close to bedtime, only to discover it’s 3 PM and we have four more hours to go. When Milo is climbing on me for the hundredth time and Ellie is asking “why” for the thousandth time, those moments stretch into eternity.
But then I blink, and suddenly Ellie is five years old. She’s reading books and having complex thoughts and she doesn’t need me to cut her food anymore. Milo is two, running instead of toddling, saying full sentences instead of babbling.
Where did the time go?
I wish I’d known how quickly it would pass. Not so I could savor every moment, because honestly, some moments aren’t meant to be savored. But so I could be more present in the ordinary ones. The morning snuggles, the sticky hands reaching for mine, the way they both still think I’m magic.
These years won’t last. Their childhood is finite. And someday I’ll miss even the hard parts.
Conclusion
Parenting is the most transformative thing I’ve ever done, and I went into it completely unprepared for the internal work it would require.
I thought I needed to know about sleep schedules and feeding routines. Those things matter, sure. But what I really needed to know was that this journey would crack me open and rebuild me in ways I couldn’t imagine.
If you’re standing at the beginning of this path, here’s what I want you to know: you won’t get it all right. You’ll make mistakes. You’ll have moments you’re not proud of. You’ll question everything about yourself.
And you’ll also experience a depth of love that you didn’t know existed. You’ll surprise yourself with your own strength and resilience. You’ll become someone you never expected to be.
Be gentle with yourself through the transformation. Give yourself grace for the learning curve. And remember that the most important thing you can offer your children isn’t perfection. It’s your willingness to keep showing up, keep growing, and keep trying.
The rest? We’re all just figuring it out as we go.
