A stranger at the store or the doctor’s office squealing, “Oh twins! I’ve always wanted twins” as I fail to muster up similar enthusiasm. The feeling of exhausted dismay, as I remembered the admonition to “sleep when the baby sleeps”, but what do you do when there are two of them and one of them is always awake?

My kids have shown me how the right outlook and a little encouragement can achieve all manner of things someone more closed off might deem impossible.

2 of my 3 children are extroverts. They love being social, they love being around other people, and my son could talk the ears off a field of corn. Don’t get me wrong, I love them with every fiber of my being. I just don’t want to be around them sometimes.

At some point I imagine every new mother must have a sense of feeling trapped; leaving the house with a newborn is akin to training for an Olympic sport, however, not having a choice to leave, or the only choice being to potentially expose your vulnerable baby to a serious virus leaves little room for the freedom of choice.

Sweet moments shared between my kids, encouragement given to me even at times from complete strangers, all seemed so minor at the time. I’m beginning to realize they aren’t small.

I admittedly have spent most of our time at home telling my children “it isn’t a big deal,” “we’ll do that another time,” or “this is not worth being upset about.” Except for one thing: it is all worth being upset about to them. My kids are grieving.

I don’t know why I imagined that tantrums would end by the time my children turned five, but for both girls, five has been an inflexible and explosive age.

I felt a renewed sense of hope that I could embrace autism, I could learn to manage his world better, so we could be the family we always wanted to be.

Sitting down at the table, warm mug in hand, I touch the keyboard. The screen of my computer comes to life, a blank page ready and waiting to be filled. It’s only taken five years of motherhood, but I feel like myself here.

Despite spending the past three years in regular therapy and trying my hardest to give my daughter every ounce of support she needs, she has continued on a path that is both upsetting and frightening.

My children didn’t ask for this. They didn’t ask for life or for a mother who is unhappy. I don’t want my depression to be the part of the story they remember or long to change.

Being a mom comes with so many mixed emotions. Uncertainty, fear, hope, love, joy, and everything else in between. Some days feel like they’ll never end and other days fly by so fast. But one thing we want you to know - you’re doing your best, Mama.

I love my son. I am enamored with my son and I cannot think of a greater blessing and honor than to be his mommy. But do I love motherhood? No. Not really.

Today was a bad day. Today I had to count on my fingers the joys, the moments of good. Most days there is no counting because most days we laugh and play and, yes, life is not perfect and we all get angry and have our moments, but the vast majority of the day is good. The vast majority of the day is joy. But that’s most days, and today was not most days.

The women I see who display their love of motherhood say they want as many children as they can carry. They feel someone is missing. They see an empty chair at their table. I love my children. I love motherhood. But I know my limits. I don’t want one more.

My daughter is beautiful. She excels in her classes. She possesses an understanding of people that isn’t common in high schoolers. She is a fierce friend. Loyal. Trusting. Kind. She is a peacemaker, a bridge builder, a shining light in a sometimes dark world.

She tells me she feels invisible.

I used to think that bravery was not for me. I’m not a risk taker. I don’t like the unknown. I need details. I like to work within boundaries and thrive in predictable situations. I love the idea of being brave, but I don’t want to find myself in a situation where I actually have to be.

If you are like me, you revolt with your entire being against judgement and unsolicited opinions. You believe that motherhood is hard enough without believing the lie that we can never quite measure up. You know that it becomes unbearable when we allow that lie to become the voice that drives our decisions and lives.

Reflecting on my upbringing, education, and beginning of my career, there was no clear template for a woman in business. Similarly there was no recipe for motherhood as a working woman. I became a mother shortly after turning 30, blindsided by my love for my child. Balance was not a thing before motherhood. I had always poured all my energy into my career, but now there was this little person who also needed me. I had no idea what it looked like to be a working mother balancing the demands of my job with the needs of a child.

I looked at my baby with spaghetti sauce all over his face - smiling, innocent - and I wanted to fall in a hole. How did I get here? He was only one year old and had encountered more rage, more shouting than anyone should have to tolerate for a year, much less the only year they'd been alive. He didn't deserve this. None of us did. I was tired of screaming at my husband, him screaming back. Tired of yelling at my perfect cherub during sleepless nights. Tired of feeling so ashamed, so alone, so broken.