Parenting is hard. It stretches you, breaks you open, and rebuilds you again. But there’s this strange idea floating around that unless you’re completely exhausted, constantly sacrificing, and entirely selfless, you’re doing it wrong. Like suffering is proof that you’re a good parent. But that’s not true. There’s no gold medal at the end for being the most worn down.
I’ve stopped believing that parenthood has to be martyrdom. My kids don’t need a version of me that’s always tired, resentful, or disconnected. They need me present. Honest. Alive.
So I let myself find joy—real joy. I laugh when they say ridiculous things. I breathe in the stillness when they nap. I play music while we clean up the living room. I go for walks alone when I need space. I let myself feel proud of tiny wins, like getting through a tantrum without yelling. I don’t wait for someone else to hand me permission to enjoy the journey. I give that permission to myself.
Because parenting isn’t about proving how much pain I can endure. It’s about creating a life with these small humans where we both get to grow. And if I can model joy, rest, boundaries, and balance, then maybe they’ll learn to carry those things into their own lives too.
This isn’t about pretending things are easy. It’s about letting go of the belief that suffering equals love. It doesn’t. Choosing joy—even in small ways—is its own kind of strength.