You Don't Stop Being Human When You Become a Mom

Despite what the Instagram experts say. Plus, a big announcement (read to the end)!

Real quick: If you have about 18 gorgeous journals around the house and each has only the first page written in, I made something for you. It’s a guide to establishing a daily writing habit that will bring you joy & creativity & all that good stuff. It’s got 7 little steps and they’re all tips that I actually use. (Don’t worry, I would never give you unrealistic ideas. Ain’t nobody got time for that). Click here to get it. (It’s free.) Okay, back to the program:

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I follow about a thousand parenting accounts on Instagram.

Accounts on gentle parenting.

Accounts on peacemaker parenting.

Accounts about homeschooling and homesteading and making healthy food that toddlers will apparently love.

Accounts that are trauma-informed and accounts that will help me get my six-pack back, despite having my insides completely reorganized by babies.

On Sunday night after a bedtime battle of epic proportions (a sarcastic thank you, Daylight Savings, from every parent in the world who wishes you would just cease and desist), I stood seething in the kitchen and, in my scariest whisper, said to Ethan, “I’m DONE with all those perfect parenting people on Instagram. I hate them.”

And do you know what he did?

He laughed. That’s right. Laughed.

“You actually think about those people?”

“YES!” I spewed. “Yes. Yes I do. And - and….” (I searched for the right words), “They’re really ticking me off!”

I’ve heard that anger can be a cover-up feeling. What I mean by that is when we’re angry, it can actually be because we’re feeling powerless, vulnerable, scared, or lonely — something along those lines. But those emotions feel weak (and we hate feeling weak) so we cover them up something that feels stronger: anger.

And in that moment, there was definitely another feeling brewing under my simmering mom skin, and it felt very weak and undesirable indeed. That feeling was shame.

The thing is, I had gentle parented my brains out over the weekend, and our two-year-old was still screaming so loud she had to cover her own ears. I had made perfectly balanced meals in fun, approachable bites, and our three-year-old still refused to eat anything but bread. I had been up with sick kids in the night and they didn’t nap in the day and I was tired and frustrated and just wanted to sit alone in a dark room. I couldn’t wait for Monday morning when everyone would go to daycare and I’d have the quiet house to work on my computer.

And do you know what flashed through my mind as I had these experiences and thoughts over the weekend?

• I remembered the trauma-informed account that posted if I sent my kids to their rooms when they were melting down, I’d make them feel like they’d have to hide their big emotions for the rest of their lives.

• I saw the homeschooling account that posted gorgeously curated pictures of children exploring nature alongside their moms on weekdays.

• I pictured the homesteading account that had a reel of a mom in a long, whimsical dress dancing with her two-year-old in the kitchen, kissing her chubby hands and wishing time would stand still.

In comparison to those, I felt wrong, wrong, wrong. I felt wrong for wishing for daycare drop-off on Monday morning. I felt wrong for wanting the terrible twos to be over. I felt wrong for wanting alone time and for disciplining my children the way I had and for letting Theo eat all those carbs. I felt like all of those parents had it right (They were so content! So level-headed! So successful!) and I had it wrong because momming feels really hard for me sometimes.

Being a parent is a seriously complex experience. I think it’s why we need to be so careful about making assumptions or generalizations about what it means to parent. I still remember holding newborn Theo and another mother saying to me, “Aw, isn’t being a mom just the best thing ever?” In that moment, it didn’t feel like the best thing. It felt like someone was holding my head underwater and I didn’t know if I’d ever breathe air again. And in that instant, I felt something must be wrong with me for not oozing joy like that mom. I wish I had had someone whispering in my ear, “Don’t worry. There will be beautiful moments, too. But you’re not wrong for grieving what was lost or not loving breastfeeding or feeling sad that your pants don’t fit. You don’t stop being human when you become a mom.”

And because I wish someone had said it me, I’m going to say it to you: You don’t stop being human when you become a mom. Being a human means that you have the capacity to experience multiple emotions at once (whether you like it or not). Some of those feelings might not match what you see on Instagram or what other moms tell you they’re feeling. But we all experience motherhood differently, because we are dynamic and unique individuals. And it’s okay. Really, it is. God crafted us that way.

Don’t worry. There will be beautiful moments, too. But you’re not wrong for grieving what was lost or not loving breastfeeding or feeling sad that your pants don’t fit. You don’t stop being human when you become a mom.

If I’m being honest, I’ve allowed Instagram influencers to be the voice in my head that measures my worth as a mom, and as a human. However, the collective voice of those “experts” doesn’t leave much room in my mind for grace. It doesn’t leave much room for my struggles or my heartbreak or my complexities as a human, either. The result is that I spend a lot of time feeling ashamed, which isn’t at all pleasant or useful.

What does leave room for grace and all of our very human pieces? God. His word. You ever read Lamentations? Psalms? The gospels? They’re filled with anger and angst and hope and beauty and despair and doubt and courage and strength and weakness. God makes room for it all. He doesn’t expect us to be just tidy and perfect. No — he knows us far better than that. And he makes room for it, and works with what we’ve got, and uses a lot of what he’s got to help us be not just the parents that our kids need, but also the people that he imagined we’d be when he knew us on the other side of eternity.

He’s the expert I want to listen to. He’s the only one that makes enough room for all of what I feel as a human. And he’s the only one who can add large amounts of grace to my imperfect parenting to somehow make it enough, anyway.

Here’s my parting shot and my big announcement: In September, we’ll add a third Braley to our clan. The kids are calling the baby “Snoopy.” Pregnancy brings up about a million feelings for me. I’m excited. I’m scared I won’t be able to handle three kids. I worry my career dreams will be interrupted, or that I’ll be too tired and busy to pursue them. I like my baby bump. I hate what’s happening to my skin. I am desperately missing my mother-in-law. I can’t wait to see Theo and Viv dote on the baby. I don’t really feel like myself. I keep thinking I’m feeling baby flutters, which is delightful. I’m thankful, and at the same time I’ve been feeling a little low.

Instead of feeling wrong for those conflicting feelings, I’m allowing myself to think, “I’m human. And it’s okay for this pregnancy thing to be complex.” And I’m allowing myself to turn away from those Instagram accounts that tell me how I *should* feel, and turning toward the God who says, “Bring it all to me. Let’s navigate it together. There’s enough space here for all of you. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

He’s (God) the only one who can add large amounts of grace to my imperfect parenting to somehow make it enough, anyway.

And friends? What would happen if we were brave enough to make the kind of space for each other, too? Maybe that’s where mom guilt would go to die — in the open arms of our friends who are gracious enough to remind us, “You don’t stop being human when you become a mom.”