This Is My Take On Being Mommy

When I first started writing, I wasn’t a mother yet. I was just a woman with a voice, a dream, and a growing audience. And then, right as my work began to take shape in the world, I found out I was going to be a mommy.

By the time the pandemic hit, my daughter had just turned three. I was entering a new stage of motherhood—one that demanded my full presence. Writing had to take a back seat so survival could take the wheel.

Now here I am, years later, returning to my work with a ten‑year‑old who somehow grew up right in front of me and a nine-month-old reminding me of what that takes. I don’t know where the time went, but I do know this: motherhood has taught me more in ten years than life taught me in the twenty‑something before it.

Before I dive into this new column, I want to share what kind of mother I am—not because I think my way is the right way, but because everything I write on comes from my lived experience. These are my thoughts, my choices, my lessons, and my heart on display. Parenting is personal, and I respect that. You may not agree with everything I say, and that’s perfectly okay.

So here it is—my take on being mommy.

I don’t accept every piece of parenting advice I’m given.

When I announced my pregnancy, I could feel the doubt from certain people before they even said a word. And then came the unsolicited advice—from family, from strangers in the grocery store, from anyone who felt entitled to tell me how to raise my child.

It took me a while to realize I didn’t have to follow any of it. I could listen, consider, and still choose what felt right for my children and me. That understanding became the foundation of our bond. I parent based on who they are, not who someone else thinks they should be.

I believe you can be your child’s parent and their friend.

This is the hill I will die on. The idea that you can’t be both is outdated and, in my opinion, harmful.

I’ve always been my daughter’s mother, her confidante, and her friend. The roles shift constantly—sometimes within minutes—but they all matter. I can discipline her, apologize to her, laugh with her, teach her, and comfort her. I can be the authority she needs and the safe space she trusts.

Being her friend doesn’t weaken my parenting. It strengthens our connection.

I protect my daughter physically and emotionally.

I’m a “be careful” mom, and I’m not ashamed of it. I want my daughters to understand the world they’re walking into—the beauty and the danger. I believe them when they say or show that they’re scared or uncomfortable. I teach them how to navigate fear, not ignore it.

Protection isn’t about sheltering them. It’s about preparing them. And because we trust each other, they listen when I guide them.

I took my mom’s formula and added my own ingredients.

The older I get, the more I see my mother in myself—and I’m proud of that. She raised us with love, truth, faith, and structure. She always told us, “I don’t want you to be just like me. I want you to be better.”

I carry her lessons with me, but I also make room for my own. These are my daughters, my journey, my motherhood. I honor what I was taught while creating what works for us.

I don’t try to do everything alone.

I was a single mom when my daughter was born, but I had a village. I got married, had my second daughter, then divorced—and we still have a village.

Parenting is hard. It’s ever‑changing. It’s exhausting. And doing it alone when you don’t have to is a recipe for burnout. I know not everyone has family support, and not everyone trusts easily, but I hope every parent finds at least one safe person to lean on.

And if you don’t have anyone, you can always talk to me. I mean that.

I’m transparent with my oldest daughter.

Age‑appropriate honesty is one of the greatest gifts I give her. She knows she can ask me anything, and she knows she’ll get a real answer—even if the answer is, “You’re too young for this right now, but we’ll talk about it when you’re older.” And I will do the same with my youngest as she continues to grow. That’s how you keep them prepared for the real world.

Transparency builds trust. And trust builds a relationship that lasts.

I’m present every day.

Being present doesn’t just mean being in the same room. It means being involved.

I play with them. I watch shows with them. We make art, sing songs, argue, apologize, talk about our feelings, pray and practice religion together, and sometimes cry together. I show up in every way I can—emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically.

Some days she wants me all in her space. Other days she wants independence. I honor both.

I take breaks when I can.

Presence is beautiful, but it can also be draining. I get tired. I get overwhelmed. I need space.

So when her aunt wants to pick her up or she goes to my mom’s for the weekend, I take the break. Sometimes it’s just enough time to clean the kitchen in peace. Sometimes it’s a date night. Sometimes it’s a whole weekend of not knowing what to do with myself.

Whatever the break looks like, I take it—because I can’t pour into her if I’m empty.

I believe in discipline.

I don’t talk about discipline often because it’s a sensitive topic, but I believe in it. My mom disciplined us well, and I carry that forward.

I use what works for my oldest daughter—mostly withdrawing privileges, sometimes a pop when it’s truly necessary. Never abuse. Never fear. Always love, structure, and understanding.

Discipline is about teaching, not punishing.

I want her to have the best life I can give her.

That’s the heart of it. I want her to feel supported, loved, guided, and safe. I want her to grow into a woman who knows her worth, trusts her voice, and believes in her future.

I want her to know I’m always here—as her mother, her friend, and her safe place.

Being mommy is the best job I’ve ever had. It’s not easy, but it’s everything to me. If you’ve found yourself struggling with remembering the beauty of it all, I hope these words can remind you that you were given the greatest opportunity the world has to offer. You were chosen. You got this, mama.