Learning to Be the Parent I Needed

I didn’t realize parenting would teach me this much about myself.

I thought it would mostly be about schedules and snacks and keeping tiny humans alive. And yes—there is a lot of that. But somewhere between the bedtime questions and the deep sighs at the end of long days, I started noticing something else happening.

I’m learning how to show up in ways I didn’t even know I needed.

Sometimes it’s small.
Taking a breath before reacting.
Listening instead of fixing.
Saying, “I see you,” instead of, “You’re fine.”

Other times, it’s harder.
Choosing patience when I’m tired.
Staying calm when everything in me wants to shut down.
Breaking habits that once felt automatic.

And here’s the funny part—no one gives you a manual for this version of parenting. You just figure it out in real time, usually while reheating the same cup of coffee for the third time.

There are moments I catch myself mid-sentence and think, Oh… this is different.
Different doesn’t mean perfect.
It just means intentional.

I’m learning that gentleness isn’t weakness.
That consistency matters more than perfection.
That apologizing to your child isn’t a failure—it’s a lesson.

Some days I get it right.
Some days I absolutely do not.

Some days I respond with empathy and grace.
Other days I respond with, “Please stop talking for five seconds,” followed immediately by guilt.

But even on the messy days, I remind myself of this:
Growth doesn’t look like getting everything right.
It looks like choosing better when you can—and trying again when you can’t.

I’m not parenting to prove anything.
I’m parenting to build trust.
To create safety.
To make space for feelings—mine included.

And maybe one day, my kids won’t remember every rule or routine.
But I hope they remember feeling heard.
Feeling safe to be themselves.
Feeling loved, even when things were hard.

I’m learning as I go.
Unlearning.
Relearning.
Showing up imperfectly—but honestly.

And if you’re doing the same, quietly trying to be better than yesterday while juggling everything else life throws at you, I hope you know this:

That effort counts.
That intention matters.
And that the work you’re doing—seen or unseen—is meaningful.

You’re not just raising children.
You’re building something softer, stronger, and more loving—one moment at a time.

And that’s more than enough. 

💛 A quiet hooray to intention over perfection.

A Small Moment That Felt Big

I stumbled across an old diary entry and decided to share it. I wrote it years ago, and reading it now feels strange but sweet (and slightly embarrassing).It was written when I started my first job, just weeks after I moved out on my own, at a time when I was dating someone and unknowingly crossing paths with the person I’d later marry. Apparently, the universe was already writing its Hallmark script.

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1-18-2004, very late, wayyyyyy past midnight.

dear diary,

just got home and i still smell like popcorn and my feet hurt sooo bad.

i’m exhausted but i don’t want to forget today so i’m writing this now.

today was my first day working at the movie theater.
my first job ever.
which is kinda crazy.

i was so nervous i thought i was gonna mess everything up. my hands were shaking and i didn’t even know how to count coins (why is that even a thing??). i kept thinking i was gonna be short at the end of the night and get in trouble on my first day. seriously.

my stepbrother was there tonight since he’s one of the managers, so that helped a little. he showed me what to do and then introduced me to this filipino guy named tommy. he’s really nice. they’re good friends, so of course my stepbrother made him train me. i swear that wasn’t random. not complaining though.

tommy was really patient with me even though i kept asking the same questions. i tried really hard to sell super combos to everyone — large popcorn + large soda. i’m broke so I figured I should try to sell as many as possible, for commission. Some people bought them and some didn’t, but when they did I felt proud like I actually knew what I was doing.

at the beginning of my shift i was freaking out. by the end i wasn’t anymore. i actually felt okay. good, even.

when i left tonight, i felt really happy. and free. like… really free.
like i could finally breathe again.

it felt different than anything i’ve felt before. like i was doing something on my own. like i wasn’t stuck anymore. i have my own job now. making my own money. no one watching me every second. no one telling me who i’m supposed to be. no one is threatening me. no one is controlling me.

i’m really tired and i have work again soon, but i’m glad i did this.
today was a good day.

listening to music right now and just thinking.
i don’t know. i just feel… happy and free.

- flipchicfromda206 aka lilbehbehboo

currently listening to 100 days by Five For Fighting

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💖A quiet hooray to the girl who didn’t know what was coming yet.

I Post the Joy. I Carry the Rest.

People think I’ve moved on.

I post happy pictures. Smiling kids. Little moments. Life-looking-like-life.
And I get it—if I were looking from the outside, I’d probably think the same thing.

But the truth is, I didn’t move on.
I moved forward. There’s a difference.

I have to keep going because I have a family. I have kids who need me present. I have a life that still asks me to show up, even on days when grief feels heavier than my body knows how to carry.

So yes, I smile.
Yes, I post the good moments.
Not because the sadness disappeared—but because joy and grief somehow learned to live in the same room.

What people don’t see is how quiet grief can be.
It doesn’t always cry. Sometimes it just sits with you while you fold laundry. Or while you scroll through photos. Or while you stare at your children and think, You should have met him.

The last real conversation I had with my dad was about my wedding.

He told me he couldn’t come because he had just gotten a new job.
I didn’t get mad. I was just… deeply sad.

I know him. I know he wanted to be there. I also know he was probably worried that asking for time off before he even started might cost him the job. That was who he was—always practical, always responsible, always putting stability first.

Still, it hurt.

The last time I hugged him was when my husband asked for my hand in marriage.
That hug lives in my body. I didn’t know it would be the last one. No one ever does.

And the last message he sent me was him saying he was going to see me and my brand new family.
That he was going to meet his grandson, my first child.

That year… he passed away.

Grief doesn’t always look like falling apart. Sometimes it looks like holding it together so tightly that no one notices the cracks. Sometimes it looks like choosing happiness on purpose because sadness already took so much.

I don’t talk about it all the time. Not because it doesn’t hurt—but because the hurt is private. Sacred, even. It belongs to the love that never went anywhere.

If you see me smiling, it’s not because I forgot him.
It’s because love doesn’t disappear when someone does.

I carry him in the way I love my kids,
in the moments I wish he could see,
and in the life I keep living—because he would’ve wanted me to.

💛 A quiet hooray to grief that lives alongside joy.

That Song Again… and Suddenly I’m Back There

There’s a very specific kind of déjà vu that only music can cause.

Not the creepy déjà vu—but the kind where a song plays and your brain quietly clocks out for a few minutes to feel things.

It always happens when you’re not prepared for it.

You’re folding laundry.
You’re driving.
You’re standing in Target, holding a toothpaste, trying to remember why you even came there.

Then a song starts playing.

And suddenly… you’re gone.

Not physically. Just emotionally.

You’re there.

Not just remembering what happened, but remembering how it felt.
The hope. The overthinking. The unnecessary emotional intensity.
The version of you who thought every lyric was a personal message from the universe.

For me, it’s a song like “Before I Fall in Love” by Coco Lee.

The second it comes on, my brain abandons the present moment completely.
I’m not thinking about groceries or responsibilities or what’s for dinner.

I’m remembering who I was when I first listened to that song—what I hoped for, what I imagined, how deeply I felt everything.

And let me be clear:
It’s not that I haven’t moved on.
Trust me, I have.

I don’t miss the situation.
I don’t want to go back.
I don’t need a rerun.

But the feeling?
That soft, hopeful, almost feeling—the part where you don’t yet know how things will turn out—that one still sneaks up on me.

It’s wild how music can unlock an entire chapter of your life in under ten seconds.

Some songs take me back to a time when life felt lighter.
Some take me back to a version of me who was quieter, more dramatic, or just trying really hard to be okay.
Some songs don’t even belong to big moments—they just remind me of who I was when I used to play them on repeat like they held answers.

And here’s the funny part:
I don’t actually miss the past.

I just miss how deeply I used to feel things—
without a to-do list, back pain, or needing to plan dinner.

Music doesn’t ask permission before it does this.
It just shows up and says, Hey. Remember her?

Sometimes it makes me smile.
Sometimes it makes me pause a little longer than planned.
Sometimes I replay the song because apparently I enjoy emotional nostalgia attacks.

But I think those moments matter.

They remind us that we’ve lived.
That we’ve grown.
That the person we used to be didn’t disappear—she just evolved, learned, and kept going.

So when a familiar song pulls you back into those days again, don’t panic.

You’re not stuck there.
You’re just remembering.

And then you turn the volume up, finish your errands, and move on—
slightly emotional, slightly amused, and fully aware that music has absolutely no chill.

Even if it’s just for three minutes and thirty seconds in the car 🎶💛

💛 A quiet hooray to the versions of us music still remembers.

They Say It in Their Sleep💤

There’s something about the middle of the night that turns my kids into tiny, half-dreaming poets.

It always happens when the house is finally quiet. No toys on the floor crunching under my feet. No snack negotiations. No “Mom, watch this” from the other room. Just darkness, a hum of the fan, and the illusion that I might actually sleep.

And then—

“I wuv you, Mom.”

Mumbled. Soft. Slurred. Like their dreams briefly remembered I exist.

Sometimes it’s barely audible, the kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t already wide awake for no reason. Other times, it’s clearer, spoken with the seriousness of a tiny human making an important announcement to the universe.

And then there’s my middle child.

He doesn’t mumble.

He declares.

“I LOVE YOU, MOM!”

No warning. No build-up. Just a full-volume proclamation delivered from the depths of REM sleep, as if his dreams demanded emotional honesty immediately. It startles me every time. My heart races. I sit up. I wonder if he needs me.

Nope.

He rolls over. Peace restored. Message delivered.

I don’t know what they’re dreaming about when it happens. Maybe I’m a character in their dream adventures. Maybe I saved them from a dragon. Maybe I just handed them a snack. Honestly, snacks seem more likely.

But there’s something so pure about love that escapes without effort. Not prompted. Not asked for. Not earned by a good day or perfect parenting moment.

Just love… leaking out.

Daytime love looks different. It’s louder. Messier. Sometimes wrapped in attitude. Sometimes followed by “but I wanted the blue cup.” Daytime love argues. Daytime love tests boundaries.

But nighttime love?

Nighttime love is unfiltered.

It’s sleepy honesty. It’s a tiny voice reminding me—without knowing it—that even on the days I feel stretched thin, unseen, or unsure, I am deeply woven into their sense of safety.

Even when they’re not awake…
they remember to love me.

And honestly?

That might be the sweetest compliment I’ll ever get. 💤

💛A quiet hooray to the love our children carry so deeply, it finds its way out—even while they’re dreaming.

The Quiet Kid With a Loud Brain

I’ve always been the quiet one.

The shy one.
The one who listens more than she talks.
The one who rehearses sentences in her head… and then decides it’s safer not to say them at all.

I was raised where “talking back” meant having a
voice, and it felt like being rude– even when it wasn’t. And having a voice was dangerous. Speaking up felt like crossing a line. Questioning things felt wrong. Even explaining yourself felt like you were asking for trouble.

So I learned to be agreeable.
Polite.
Soft-spoken.
Invisible when necessary.

And honestly? I got really good at it.

What most people don’t know is that while I was quiet on the outside, my brain has never been quiet.

Not once.

My mind runs on a constant loop of ideas, stories, lists, plans, projects, and “what ifs.” I start something and I cannot leave it unfinished. If I get an idea, it doesn’t politely wait its turn—it moves in, rearranges the furniture, and refuses to leave until it’s done.

I don’t have a diagnosis, but I live with what feels like undiagnosed OCD. Not just the tidy, color-coded kind people talk about—but the mental kind. The kind that says:

“If you start this, you must finish it.”
“If you see a gap, you must fill it.”
“If something can be better, you have to make it better.”

It’s exhausting.
And it’s also how everything I create comes to life.

Here’s the strange part:
I’ve always been afraid to let people know I write. Or create. Or build things from nothing.

Because somewhere along the way, my brain decided that sharing what I do equals showing off.

Talking about your work? Bragging.
Being proud of yourself? Arrogant.
Letting people see your effort? Attention-seeking.

So I kept it small. Quiet. Private.

I cheered for everyone else loudly while whispering my own dreams to myself.

But here’s what I’m slowly learning (and reminding myself of daily):

You can be humble and visible.
You can be kind and honest.
You can take up space without hurting anyone.

Having a voice doesn’t mean you’re being disrespectful.
Sharing your work doesn’t mean you think you’re better than anyone else.
Finishing something doesn’t mean you’re too much—it means you’re wired to create.

I used to think my quiet nature was something I needed to fix.

Now I see it differently.

I’m quiet because I observe deeply.
I’m shy because I feel deeply.
I’m driven because my mind doesn’t know how to let go of what matters to it.

And that combination—quiet, sensitive, relentless—isn’t a flaw.

It’s just a different kind of strength.

So if you’re someone who:

• Overthinks every word before you speak

• Worries constantly about hurting others

• Feels guilty for wanting more

• Has a brain that won’t let ideas rest

• Creates in private because sharing feels scary

You’re not broken.
You’re not dramatic.
You’re not “too much.”

You’re just learning how to exist in a world that didn’t always make space for your voice.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to let it be heard anyway.

💛A quiet hooray to becoming visible in your own time.

Meet Diwa: A Character Born From Wishing

Diwa  came from a very familiar place—the quiet moments parents know well.

The ones where your child is hoping for something they don’t yet have the words to explain.
The ones where you wish you could promise everything will turn out exactly right, even when you don’t know how or when.

As a parent, I’ve learned how often wishes show up in everyday life.
They’re there at bedtime, in whispered hopes.
They’re there in car rides, in questions that start with “What if…”
They’re there in moments when our children are learning patience, trust, and the idea that not everything happens right away.

Diwa was created to gently hold space for those moments.

She represents wishing—but not the kind that rushes or demands.
She represents quiet hope. The kind that sits beside you and says, “It’s okay to wait. It’s okay to hope.”

As parents, we spend so much time teaching our children how to do things—count, read, share, understand the world. But there are also the invisible lessons: learning to be patient, learning to believe in themselves, learning that their feelings and hopes matter.

That’s where Diwa lives.

I wanted a character who didn’t shout lessons, but instead felt like a calm presence. Someone children could relate to when they’re unsure, waiting, or quietly dreaming about what’s next.

Because parenting isn’t just about guiding our children forward—it’s also about sitting with them where they are.

Diwa’s story is a reminder that every wish matters.
That even the small ones are worth holding gently.
And that sometimes, just being seen is enough.

If Diwa finds her way into your home, I hope she becomes a soft companion for those quiet moments—when your child is learning that hope doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

CLICK HERE TO BUY MOMMYHOORAY'S BOOKS TODAY!

What Growing Up Compared Taught Me

I grew up with an older brother who was sporty, cool, popular, and effortlessly good at things that came with cheering sections.

And then there was me.

The nerdy one.
The quiet, shy one.
The kid who brought a book everywhere like it was emotional support luggage.

If my brother walked into a room, people noticed.
If I walked into a room, people lowered their voices and said things like, “Oh—she’s very quiet.”

People loved pointing out the difference.

“Why aren’t you like your brother?”
“Your brother plays sports—do you?”
“He’s so outgoing!”
“Ohhh… you’re the shy one.”

First of all: bold of you to ask a child that.
Second of all: what answer were you expecting?
“Sorry, I’ll reboot my personality tonight”?

I wasn’t mad at my brother. Never was. He didn’t steal my spotlight—he just naturally stood under lights I didn’t want to be in. He was confident. He was likable. He fit the mold without even trying.

I envied him, though. Because being him looked easier. No explaining. No justifying. No translating yourself for adults who didn’t know what to do with quiet kids.

He got trophies.
I got bookmarks.

He got team photos.
I got “She’s easy,” which really meant I learned how to ask for less.

Sometimes they said it like a compliment. Sometimes like a relief.

“She’s fine.”
“She keeps herself busy.”
“She’ll be okay.”

And I believed them. So I stayed okay. I stayed out of the way. I stayed small enough to be convenient.

Because when you’re a kid, you don’t yet know that greatness doesn’t all look the same. You only know which ones get applause.

My brother’s strengths were loud and obvious. Mine were quiet and confusing to some adults.

While he was learning teamwork on the field, I was learning how to read a room in half a second. While he was learning confidence out loud, I was learning how to sit with my thoughts without interrupting anyone else’s.

I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t behind. I was just early.

Early to thinking too much.
Early to feeling deeply.
Early to building entire worlds in my head because the real one felt too noisy.

Here’s the plot twist no one warns you about:

The nerdy kid grows up.

And suddenly, all the traits that were once brushed off start turning into something useful.

The overthinking becomes insight.
The sensitivity becomes empathy.
The quiet becomes depth.
The bookish kid becomes the one who writes, listens, notices.

I don’t envy my brother anymore. And I don’t resent my younger self either. She wasn’t lacking—she was just developing a different kind of strength in a world that only knew how to celebrate one kind of shine.

And now that I’m a parent? This hits different.

Because I see how easy it is to label kids early.

The loud one.
The shy one.
The athletic one.
The “easy” one.

We say it casually, like we’re just describing personalities. But kids hear it like a forecast for who they’re allowed to be.

So now, when I look at my kids, I try to do something different.

I don’t ask why they aren’t like each other.
I don’t rank their strengths.
I don’t measure them against anyone else.

I just watch.
And listen.
And remind myself that becoming yourself is not a race.

Because every kid shines—just not all of them under stadium lights.

Some glow softly.
Some bloom later.
Some change the room without ever raising their voice.

And those kids?

They don’t need fixing.
They need time.

💛 A quiet hooray to kids who shine without an audience

The Day I Learned the Word Aloof

I went to a private Catholic school in high school.

Uniforms. Rules. Structure.
A place where you learned early how to be respectful, polite, and very good at not making adults uncomfortable.

So when one of my teachers called me a loner, it stayed with me.

It happened in class during a PE break.
Not announced to everyone—but not completely private either.

She talked to me about how I seemed like a loner.
Then she called one of my friends over and asked if she thought I was “aloof” too.

I remember standing there in my PE uniform, trying to keep my face neutral while my insides panicked. I wasn’t in trouble—but I felt exposed. Like someone had just narrated my personality without my permission.

And I will never forget the word aloof because of her.

Not because it was dramatic.
But because it was specific.
Because it felt permanent—like a label someone placed on me and walked away from.

She didn’t know me.
But in that moment, it felt like she had decided something about me.

What she saw was a student who didn’t talk much.
What she didn’t see was someone who felt everything.

I wasn’t unfriendly.
I wasn’t unhappy.
I wasn’t standing alone because I had no friends.

I was just… internal.

I listened more than I spoke.
I observed people.
I chose my friends carefully.
I needed time before I opened up—like rewinding a cassette with a pencil before it was ready again. If you know, you know. That was the ’90s.

But in a place where being noticeable often meant being loud, quiet somehow became “loner.”
“Aloof.”
As if silence automatically meant something was wrong.

That moment stayed with me longer than it should have—not because it traumatized me, but because it planted a quiet, lingering question I carried for years: Am I doing something wrong by being this way?

Now, as an adult—and especially as a parent—I see it differently.

Sometimes adults don’t really see kids.
They see behaviors and fill in the blanks with assumptions.

And kids absorb labels like they’re permanent.

“Too quiet.”
“Too sensitive.”
“Too emotional.”
“Too much.”
Or somehow… not enough.

Watching my own children now, I think about how many kids are standing quietly in classrooms, being themselves, while someone older decides who they are based on what they don’t say.

And how careful we need to be with our words.

Because quiet kids aren’t broken.
Thoughtful kids aren’t distant.
Observant kids aren’t aloof.

Sometimes they’re just listening.
Sometimes they’re taking their time.
Sometimes they’re becoming.

I wasn’t a loner.
I wasn’t aloof.
I was paying attention.

And I didn’t need to be louder to matter.

If you were that kid too—the quiet one, the observant one, the misunderstood one—I see you now. You were never wrong for who you were.

You weren’t broken.
You were becoming.
And that takes time. 

💛 A quiet hooray to being misunderstood and still becoming.

Generational Trauma – The Cycle Stops With Us

I think a lot of us are parenting with two voices in our heads.

One says, “Be calm. Be gentle. Respond, don’t react.”
The other asks, “WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME WITH A STICK?”

Both voices are valid.

When people talk about generational trauma, it can sound very big and very heavy—like something you need years of therapy, a yoga retreat, and a fully charged nervous system to even begin addressing.

But for many moms, it actually shows up in smaller, sneakier ways.

It shows up when your body reacts faster than your brain.
When you hear yourself say something and immediately think, Okay… we’re not doing that anymore.
When you pause mid-sentence, take a breath, and choose a different ending.

That pause?
That’s the work.

I don’t believe breaking cycles means pretending the past didn’t happen.
It means remembering enough to choose differently—without living there.

You can forgive without reopening doors.
You can move on without rewriting history.
You can say, “That shaped me,” without letting it shape your children.

That’s gentle parenting—but the real version.

Not the Instagram version where everyone whispers and the house is spotless.

The version where you try.
Mess up.
Apologize.
Try again.

Some days, gentle parenting looks like:

• Taking a deep breath before responding

• Saying, “I shouldn’t have said that like that”

• Walking away to calm down

• Realizing you ran out of patience and deciding tomorrow is a reset

And some days, gentle parenting looks like hiding in the bathroom for 90 seconds because you need silence and a snack.

Both count.

I think a lot of us are parenting with intention instead of instinct—and that’s exhausting. We’re actively choosing to stop things that once felt normal. We’re rewriting scripts we didn’t write in the first place.

And yet—we’re doing it while packing lunches, losing socks, stepping on Legos, and answering the same question seventeen times in a row.

That matters.

Breaking generational patterns doesn’t mean being perfect.
It means being aware.
It means being willing.
It means choosing repair over pride.

It means raising kids who feel safe enough to make mistakes—because we’re learning how to model that too.

And honestly?
If the cycle stops with us—even imperfectly—that’s something to be proud of.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to gently remind someone (again) that crayons do not belong in their mouth.

💛A quiet hooray to breaking cycles, even imperfectly.

I’m NOT a Gentle Parenting Expert

I am not a gentle parenting expert.

I don't always have the calmest response. I don't always say the right thing the first time. I've definitely raised my voice and then immediately thought, Okay… that was not my best moment.

But I'm trying.

And most days, I try again.

Trying Looks Different Every Day

Some days, trying looks like taking a deep breath before responding.

Other days, it looks like apologizing afterward and saying, "I shouldn't have said it that way."

Sometimes trying means choosing patience.

Sometimes it means realizing I ran out of it and deciding to reset tomorrow.

Parenting isn't a straight line. It's more like a loop of learning, unlearning, and reminding yourself that you're human too.

Gentle Parenting Isn't a Personality Type

I used to think gentle parenting was something you either were or weren't. Like you had to naturally speak in a calm voice at all times and never feel overwhelmed.

Turns out, that's not how real life works.

For me, gentleness isn't about perfection. It's about intention. It's about caring enough to pause, reflect, and try again—even when you're tired, touched-out, or running on coffee and very little sleep.

If you're trying to do better than yesterday, that counts.

Why I Still Create Gentle Books

This might sound funny coming from someone who doesn't always feel gentle—but that's exactly why I create the kind of books I do.

I want reminders.

I want support.

I want tools that help bring calm into moments that don't naturally come with it.

The books I create aren't a reflection of me being perfect. They're a reflection of what I value. They represent the parent I'm working toward—not the one I claim to be all the time.

And honestly? Sometimes the books help me just as much as they help my kids.

The Trying Is the Point

Parenting doesn't need more pressure or judgment. It needs more honesty.

You can love your kids deeply and still lose patience.

You can care about gentle learning and still have hard days.

You can mess up, repair, and keep showing up.

That's not failure. That's parenting.

So no, I'm not a gentle parenting expert.

But I'm trying—with love, intention, and a whole lot of learning along the way.

And if you're trying too, you're doing more than enough.

💛 A quiet hooray to imperfect parents with good intentions.

How MommyHooray Began

MommyHooray wasn’t something I planned—it grew out of real, everyday life.
It started in the middle of real life—usually with noise in the background and someone needing something right now.

Like many moms, I was juggling a lot. Kids to raise, emotions to manage (theirs and mine), and the daily challenge of trying to be patient while running on too little sleep and coffee that had already been reheated at least once. Some days I felt capable and intentional. Other days, I felt like I had already used up my calm voice before breakfast.

I’ll be honest—I’m not really the gentle-parenting mom. I don’t always respond perfectly. I get tired. I get overwhelmed. I sometimes think the right thing five minutes after I’ve already said the wrong one.

But I do try. Like, really try.

And somewhere in that trying—between the mess, the noise, and the very human moments—MommyHooray began.

A Love for Gentle Learning (Even When Parenting Isn’t Always Gentle)

I started noticing how much learning and connection happen in the smallest moments. Not the big, picture-perfect ones—but the everyday ones. The bedtime questions when everyone should already be asleep. The big emotions over tiny things. The moments when you pause, take a breath, and choose to try again.

I wanted books that felt like support, not pressure.

Books that didn’t expect parents to be endlessly calm or children to be endlessly cooperative. Books that offered gentleness—even on days when we’re still working toward it.

Gentle learning, to me, isn’t about being perfect. It’s about intention. About showing up again. About creating moments of calm where you can.

That became the heart of MommyHooray.

From Motherhood to Story Worlds

As MommyHooray grew, so did the ideas. What started as a simple wish turned into story worlds—places where learning and imagination could exist without stress.

One of those worlds is Tapi’s World, guided by Tapi, a soft little cloud friend with a big heart. Tapi is the steady presence I sometimes wish I could borrow—the one who stays calm, listens kindly, and doesn’t lose patience when “why?” is asked for the fifteenth time in a row.

Through Tapi and other characters, I’ve been able to create stories that feel reassuring rather than overwhelming. Stories that meet children where they are—and quietly support the parent reading along, possibly from the couch, the floor, or while breaking up a sibling disagreement.

Made From Real Life (Trying Counts)

MommyHooray is shaped by real motherhood. Not the curated kind, but the honest kind. The kind where you’re learning alongside your kids, apologizing when needed, and reminding yourself that effort matters.

My work is inspired by my three boys, but also by the parent I’m becoming as I go. I don’t believe childhood should feel rushed, and I don’t believe parents need to get it right all the time.

Some days, gentle parenting looks like patience.
Other days, it looks like taking a breath and trying again tomorrow.

Everything here is created with care, intention, and a lot of heart—sometimes fueled by inspiration, sometimes by determination, and sometimes by snacks eaten while standing in the kitchen.

Looking Ahead

MommyHooray is still growing, just like the families it’s made for. My hope is that these books feel like something you can come back to—on calm days, hard days, and the days when everyone is tired by noon.

If you’re here, thank you for being part of this journey.
It truly means more than I can say—especially on the days I’m still figuring it out too.

💛A quiet hooray to growing alongside our children.