It’s weird how raising kids stirs up so much of my own childhood. The way I react when they cry, when they push boundaries, when they need so much from me. Sometimes it feels like I’m parenting not just them, but also the little version of me who never got what she needed.

There are moments when the kids are melting down, and I feel this sudden wave of frustration rise up. It’s old. It’s familiar. It’s mine. It’s that tiny voice inside that still wants to be held, to be understood, to feel safe.

And it’s so hard – trying to be gentle with them while also learning to be gentle with myself. Trying to break patterns that are so deeply ingrained they feel like instinct. I catch myself saying things I swore I’d never say, doing things I swore I’d never do. It feels like I’m constantly unlearning while I’m trying to teach – and teaching without a blueprint is exhausting. Some days, I honestly don’t know if I’m strong enough for it.

I think about how much healing I still have to do, how far I still have to go. Will I ever truly feel “healed”?

I want so badly to be the mum who doesn’t project her wounds onto her kids – to break the cycle once and for all. But the truth is, sometimes I do. And when that happens, I spiral into guilt and shame, because I know better, and I feel like I should do better.

I’m trying so hard to show myself compassion, but I am my own worst critic. I’m learning to forgive myself when I fall apart, to breathe, and to begin again – even when I’m exhausted to my core.

I used to think life was the pursuit of happiness but maybe it’s actually the pursuit of growth.