Volume 1:
When Everything Felt Like Too Much
Before you read any of these letters, I want to tell you one thing.
This is about motherhood —
but not the kind we usually talk about.
Not the highlight reel.
Not the advice.
Not the versions where we’re either “doing great” or “completely falling apart.”
This is about the quiet middle.
The part where you’re still functioning.
Still showing up.
Still loving your kids fiercely.
But everything feels heavier than it should —
and you don’t know why.
These letters weren’t written because I had answers.
They were written because I couldn’t keep pretending I was fine.
Most of them were written late —
when the house was finally quiet
and my brain was still loud.
I was a mother doing all the normal things —
and privately wondering why normal days felt so hard,
why my reactions felt bigger than the moment,
why I kept telling myself to “get it together”
instead of asking what I was carrying.
So I started writing it down.
Not to fix it.
Not to explain it.
Just to tell the truth about what it felt like
from the inside.
What you’re about to read isn’t a transformation story.
It doesn’t build toward a breakthrough.
It’s a season.
A season where I stopped arguing with how hard things felt
and started paying attention.
Some of these letters may feel uncomfortably familiar.
Some may put words to things you’ve never said out loud.
If one sentence makes you exhale —
that’s enough.
Here are the letters…
I Thought Hard Days Meant I Was a Bad Mom — Turns Out They Were Just Days
Nothing dramatic happened — and yet inside, everything did. This letter explores the moment when hard days stop being just days and start feeling like proof you’re failing.
I didn’t have a dramatic breaking point.
No screaming.
No sobbing on the kitchen floor.
No cinematic “this ends now” moment with swelling music.
(Which honestly felt a little rude, given the emotional effort involved.)
It was much less impressive than that.
It was a regular, exhausting moment.
A kid upset.
Me already tired.
My patience thinner than it had any business being.
Nothing actually went wrong.
And yet—
inside me, everything did.
Because instantly — without asking permission — my brain went there.
See? You’re failing.
See? Other moms wouldn’t lose it over this.
See? This is why you always feel like a bad mom.
(My brain has never waited for evidence.)
And the worst part?
I believed it.
For most of my adult life, hardship didn’t mean life is hard.
It meant:
I’m bad at life.
Kid upset?
→ Bad mom.
Running late?
→ Can’t get it together.
Feeling overwhelmed?
→ Weak.
→ Not cut out for this.
(No appeals process.)
Later that night — after the house was quiet and the adrenaline had worn off — something shifted.
Not in a magical way.
In a tired, honest, huh way.
I replayed the moment again.
And for the first time, instead of asking,
What does this say about me?
I asked something different.
What if this isn’t proof I’m failing?
What if this is just a hard chapter?
Not the whole story.
Not a verdict.
Just… a chapter.
(A very loud one, but still.)
That question landed differently.
Because suddenly, the moment wasn’t screaming bad mom.
It was whispering human mom.
Once I noticed this, I couldn’t unsee it.
The moments I’d labeled as failures weren’t big, dramatic disasters.
They were painfully ordinary.
Snapping when I was overstimulated.
Forgetting something important — again.
Feeling resentful and immediately guilty for feeling resentful.
Wanting quiet more than connection
and wondering what kind of mother that made me.
(The kind who needs quiet, apparently.)
That constant background hum of feeling like a bad mom didn’t come from one big mistake.
It came from stacking meaning
onto every small one.
