Are There Moms Like Me?

Sometimes I look around—school pickup lines, birthday parties, Target aisles—and wonder:

Is anyone else holding it together with coffee, crumbs, and sheer willpower… or is it just me?

I’m the mom who forgets spirit week until the night before.
The mom who packs lunches with love… and occasionally panic.
The mom who knows all her kids’ shoe sizes but can’t remember the last time she replaced her own bras.

I’m married to a night-shift nurse, which means some nights I go to bed alone, and some mornings I wake up already tired. I’m the stay-at-home parent who used to work in healthcare, who knows what burnout looks like—and still manages to trip over it in yoga pants.

I love my kids deeply. Like, bone-deep love.
But I also crave quiet. And adult conversation. And finishing a thought without someone asking for a snack.

Some days I feel like I’m doing everything.
Other days I feel like I’m missing something.
And most days, I feel both—before noon.

I try to be patient. I try to be present.
But sometimes I lose my cool over spilled milk and cry later about it in the shower.
Sometimes I feel guilty for wanting more me when I already have so much them.

And here’s the thing no one says loudly enough:

👉 You can be grateful and exhausted.
👉 You can love your kids and miss your old self.
👉 You can be doing your best and still feel like you’re falling short.

If you’ve ever:

• Sat in your car an extra minute just for silence

• Wondered why everyone else seems to have it figured out

• Felt invisible even while being needed constantly

• Loved motherhood but struggled with the weight of it

Then yes.
There are moms like you.

We are the quiet ones and the loud ones.
The planners and the wing-it types.
The ones who show up messy but sincere.

We’re not failing.
We’re carrying a lot.

And if no one’s told you today—
You’re not alone.
You’re not behind.
You’re not doing it wrong.

You’re just a mom.
A real one.
Like me.

💛 A quiet hooray to the moms who keep showing up—even when they’re running on fumes.

The Laundry That Never Ends (And Somehow Multiplies)

I swear I just did laundry.

Like… emotionally, spiritually, recently.

And yet here it is again—
a mountain of socks with no matches, tiny jeans that are somehow inside-out and backward, and that one hoodie that smells faintly like playground mulch and mystery snacks.

Laundry in a house with kids isn’t a chore.
It’s a lifestyle.

You don’t finish laundry.
You just participate in it daily, like a group project no one signed up for.

There’s the “clean but not folded” pile.
The “folded but not put away” pile.
The “reworn because it was only worn for five minutes” pile.
And the elite category:
The clean clothes that somehow end up back in the hamper anyway.

My personal favorite is finding socks in places socks have no business being.
Under couches.
Inside backpacks.
In the dog’s bed.
I once found one in the freezer. I have no follow-up questions.

Laundry also has impeccable timing.
You start a load and suddenly every child needs the exact shirt currently tumbling in the washer like it’s on vacation.

And don’t get me started on folding.
Folding is when your kids suddenly need water, snacks, help with feelings, and possibly a full life pep talk—all within the first three shirts.

Half the time I fold at night, quietly, like I’m diffusing a bomb made of tiny pajamas.
The house is silent.
The dryer hums.
And I think, This is my peace.

Then someone wakes up coughing and the moment is gone.

But here’s the thing—
as annoying and endless as laundry is, it’s also proof of life happening.
Dirty knees from playing hard.
Extra outfit changes from messy creativity.
Pajamas worn all day because it was that kind of day.

One day, the baskets will be lighter.
The socks will be bigger.
The stains won’t be from grass and yogurt, but from real-world living.

And I’ll probably miss this chaos.
(Not today. But someday.)

So if your laundry is staring at you right now, judging you quietly—
you’re not behind.
You’re just raising humans.

💛 A quiet hooray to the loads that never end, the socks that vanish, and the moms who keep pressing start anyway.

Grateful for the In-Laws Who Show Up

I didn’t grow up imagining that one day my in-laws would feel like a safety net. If anything, pop culture kind of set me up to expect the opposite—awkward holidays, polite smiles, and everyone silently counting the minutes until dessert.

But instead? I married into a family that shows up. And I don’t take that lightly.

My side of the family lives far away. Like, not-pop-over-with-a-forgotten-backpack far away. Like plane tickets, time zones, and “we’ll FaceTime you” far away. And while distance doesn’t lessen love, it does mean the day-to-day help—the hands-on, can-you-grab-the-kids, we’ve-got-you kind of support—just isn’t always possible.

Enter my in-laws.

The ones who help without keeping score.
The ones who love our kids like it’s second nature.
The ones who don’t act like they’re doing us a favor every time they step in.

They help in the quiet ways that matter most. School pickups. Babysitting. Showing up to games and events. Being present. Letting us breathe when life feels loud and chaotic—which, with three boys and a dog who thinks he’s also a toddler, is… often.

And here’s the thing that really gets me: they don’t just help me. They help us. They support my marriage. They understand that sometimes parents need a break, or a nap, or five uninterrupted minutes to drink coffee while it’s still warm. They respect boundaries. They trust us as parents. And they love without conditions or commentary.

That kind of support is rare. And when you don’t have your own family nearby, it’s even more meaningful.

There are moments—usually late at night, after the kids are asleep and the house is finally quiet—when it really hits me. How different things would feel without them. How much heavier life would be. How grateful I am that my kids get to grow up surrounded by grandparents who are present, loving, and invested.

Not everyone gets this experience. I know that. I don’t assume it. I don’t gloss over it. I hold it gently, because I know how lucky we are.

So this is me saying it out loud: thank you. For the help. For the love. For stepping in when my side of the family can’t physically be here. For making our village feel full, even when miles separate us from the people who raised me.

Family doesn’t always look the way you expect it to. Sometimes, it shows up in the form of in-laws who become anchors, cheerleaders, and a soft place to land.

And that’s something I’ll always be grateful for.

💛 A quiet hooray to the in-laws who show up, love hard, and make distance feel a little less heavy.

The People Who Stepped In

There’s a certain kind of love that shows up quietly.

No announcements. No speeches. Just action.

When I was a kid, life shifted in a way I didn’t fully understand yet. My mom went to another country. My dad stayed, doing the best he could—working, worrying, and trying to hold things together in a way only parents know how.

But the real safety net?
That came from my grandparents… and my aunt and uncles.

They didn’t step in halfway. They stepped in all the way.

They fed us.
They watched us.
They made sure we got to school, did our homework, and didn’t accidentally burn the house down (no promises, but they tried).

They filled in the gaps without ever making us feel like something was missing.

My grandparents’ house wasn’t just a house. It was a landing pad. A soft place to fall. A space where routine mattered—meals at certain times, familiar smells in the kitchen, voices that sounded like home even when everything else felt uncertain.

And my aunt and uncles?
They weren’t just “helping out.” They were showing up.

They showed up with rides, supervision, discipline, jokes, and with tough love that said, "I’m serious… but also, come here, you’re fine."

No one sat me down to explain what was happening. No one over-shared adult problems. They just… handled it. Which, looking back as a parent now, feels like a superpower.

What I didn’t realize then—but absolutely do now—is how heavy that responsibility must have been. Raising kids that weren’t technically theirs. Rearranging lives. Making room. Adjusting expectations. All without applause.

As a mom, I think about this a lot.
How love doesn’t always look like perfection.
Sometimes it looks like consistency.
Sometimes it looks like exhaustion.
Sometimes it looks like adults choosing children, again and again, even when life didn’t go according to plan.

My brother and I were lucky.
Not because things were easy—but because we were surrounded by people who made sure we were okay.

And that kind of love?
That sticks.
That shapes you.
That becomes the blueprint for how you show up for others later.

💛 A quiet hooray to the grandparents, aunts, and uncles who stepped in and made sure we never felt alone.