I Never Wanted to Be a Mom

I didn’t grow up dreaming about motherhood.

I grew up in a small town, carrying a quiet but persistent sense of inadequacy.

To say I watched my parents struggle in their marriage is putting it lightly. My childhood home was filled with arguments. Small resentments that became shouting matches that ended with cursing, crying, and slamming doors. And one distinct memory that involved a knife.

I now know that a child should never have to witness this level of volatility. But at the time, I felt responsible for my family’s tension. Maybe not for starting it, but for not being able to make it stop.

These fights would often end in my mom crying and withdrawing emotionally, while my dad either sat in silence or left the house entirely. Needless to say, there was no space to talk about what happened.

So I internalized it. I convinced myself that if I had just been smarter, calmer, or more resourceful, I could have stopped it. That fixing my parents’ fights would give me the one thing I desperately wanted: control.

I don’t know what other kids do in search of control. My choice was to try my best to become exceptional.

I was the best student in my school, even in my town. I became known for it. From the outside, I looked like a confident, high-achieving kid with everything under control. On the inside, I never felt good enough.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see someone lovable or even particularly worthy. I saw a thin, awkward girl, trying very hard to appear confident, polished, and even a little arrogant. Because if I looked perfect, then no one would see the child desperately seeking validation, attention, and stability.

Over the years, my insecurities turned into anger – which was easily and disproportionately redirected at the world. My morning commute was like a daily pressure cooker. I regularly felt the urge to lash out, honking aggressively at a car that cut in front of me. At the time, I laughed it off as road rage. But now, I realize that I was trying to release bottled up emotions looking for a way out.

And if I couldn’t contain it in myself, how could I trust myself not to pass it on?

I always thought I should become a mother. But it was never something I truly wanted.

I saw motherhood as another achievement I could use to cover my childhood pain. As if having kids were proof that I was well-adjusted and on a “normal” life path.

But nevertheless, I resisted.

I’d worked so hard to build a life for myself. I fought tooth and nail to become independent, taking control of my own trajectory. The idea of sacrificing that for another human being – even my own child – felt almost unbearable.

More than that, I was afraid.

Afraid of being trapped in a relationship that lacked understanding.
Afraid of running a family that looked happy on the surface but felt empty underneath.
Afraid of bringing a child into the world, only for that child to carry the weight of unresolved pain… just like I did.

I was afraid of repeating my parents’ mistakes.

Looking back I see this more clearly now.

At that time I didn’t understand how someone could love another person completely, to the point where that love feels bigger than oneself.

And the truth was: I wasn’t sure I was capable of that kind of love.

I was terrified the first time I felt my baby kick.

I’d spent years watching friends celebrate these pregnancy milestones. But when it happened to me, I was completely overwhelmed. The kick was unfamiliar, almost intrusive. Like my body didn’t belong to me any more. And if I’m being totally honest, those nine months were a rollercoaster of emotions.

Then my son was born. And although I was filled with a love I didn’t fully recognize yet, I still struggled through those early days of motherhood. Every thought, emotion, and anxiety came rushing to the surface. At first, I tried pushing them down. (I was pretty good at this, after all) But when that didn’t work, I started meditating. And in looking inward at my own emotions, I learned the art of letting go.

For someone who loved control, this was a very big deal.

And as I released control, I also released the anger I’d been carrying for far too long. It didn’t disappear completely. But in practicing surrender, I discovered a new perspective on my own identity.

I began to love being a mom.

Over the past five years, I’ve been learning how to become a better human being, not just a better mother.

I’m very proud that we’ve built a life as a family rooted in learning, in trial and error, and in reflection. We’re definitely not perfect, but we are intentional. We try to understand ourselves, to grow, to show up more consciously for each other.

So today, as a mom of two, I’ll give you my answer:

What does it feel like to be a mother?

It feels grounded. More resilient. More whole. (And, let’s be honest, still a little scary sometimes.)

And if I could do it all over again, would I still choose to have kids?

Absolutely. Because motherhood didn’t take something away from me.
It gave me access to parts of myself I had never met before.

And perhaps more importantly, it allowed me to experience love in a way that I never had growing up. An unconditional love rooted in safety and acceptance.

Happy Mother’s Day!

❤️ Tracy