Letting go of expectations and leaning into what truly lasts
Somewhere along the way, motherhood picked up an expectation I don’t remember agreeing to.
That childhood has to be magical.
Not just loving. Not just safe. But memorable in all the right ways. Full of traditions, experiences, and moments worth capturing. The kind of childhood that looks good from the outside and reassures us we’re doing it right.
And when life doesn’t cooperate—when grief shows up, when exhaustion settles in, when reality refuses to soften—that expectation doesn’t quietly leave. It presses harder.
If you’ve ever felt that pressure, I hope you’ll stay here with me for a bit. And if you feel comfortable, I’d love for you to comment as you read. Motherhood can feel isolating, especially when it doesn’t look the way we thought it would. Sharing our stories has a way of reminding us we’re not alone.
Before loss entered our lives, I had ideas about the childhood I wanted to give my kids. I imagined joy without interruption. Traditions that would carry us year after year. A sense of ease I assumed would always be there.
And with him, the life I thought we were living.
Everything didn’t just change emotionally—it changed practically. Energy shifted. Capacity narrowed. Some days, the goal wasn’t making memories. It was making it through. And that reality came with guilt I wasn’t prepared for.
Guilt that life felt heavier.
Guilt that joy didn’t come as easily.
Guilt that childhood, in that season, wasn’t magical.
It took me a long time to understand that what I was calling failure was actually something else entirely.
The Childhood I Thought I Had to Give vs. The One We’re Living
There’s a childhood we imagine before real life reshapes us.
It’s organized. Predictable. Full of intention and energy. It assumes we’ll always have the emotional and physical space to make things special.
And then there’s the childhood we’re actually living.
One night not long ago, we were all sitting in the living room. Nothing special was happening. No plan. No activity. Just the kids sprawled on the couch, half-watching a show, half-talking about their day. Someone made a joke. Someone laughed harder than expected. And for a moment, it hit me—this was it.
Not only do these moments happen on the couch but they happen at the dinner table too.
You can read about my mission of reclaiming the table here.
Not a big memory.
Not a milestone.
Just together.
In that moment, I realized my kids weren’t missing something. They weren’t keeping score. They weren’t waiting for magic.
They were safe. They were connected. They were home.
And that mattered more than anything I could have planned.
If you’ve ever worried your kids are missing out because your life looks different than you hoped, I want you to know—you’re not alone in that fear.
Presence leaves a deeper mark than perfection ever could.
When “Magical” Turns Into a Quiet Burden
The pressure to make childhood magical doesn’t usually come from our kids.
It comes from comparison. From scrolling. From seeing what other families seem to manage effortlessly. From the belief that if we don’t create something special, we’re letting our kids down.
But chasing that version of childhood can quietly pull us out of the present.
It can make us rush moments instead of resting in them.
Perform instead of connect.
Feel guilty for simply surviving a season that requires more than we have.
And for families navigating grief, illness, divorce, financial stress, or emotional burnout, that pressure can feel impossible.
I had to ask myself an honest question: Who was I trying to make this magical for?
Because my kids weren’t asking for more. They weren’t asking for perfection. They were asking for consistency. For honesty. For reassurance that even though life had changed, love hadn’t.
Letting go of the “magical childhood” standard wasn’t giving up. It was choosing to stay present in the life we actually had.
How Grief Changed the Way I Mother
Grief doesn’t just take. It clarifies.
After losing Q, I couldn’t distract my kids from pain or rush them through hard feelings. I had to sit with them. I had to let emotions exist without fixing them. And in doing that, I saw something unexpected take shape.
My kids learned that feelings were safe.
That sadness didn’t mean something was wrong.
That joy could still show up, even quietly.
That home was steady, even when life wasn’t.
They didn’t need me to manufacture happiness. They needed me to stay.
And staying doesn’t look magical. It looks ordinary. It looks showing up when you’re tired. It looks answering hard questions honestly. It looks choosing presence over performance.
If grief, or any hard season, has changed the way you parent, that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means you’re parenting inside real life.
The Quiet Power of an Unremarkable Childhood
There’s something we don’t say enough out loud.
Not every childhood will be exciting.
Not every season will be light.
Not every home will look like a highlight reel.
And that doesn’t mean those childhoods are broken.
There’s power in an unremarkable childhood. In routines. In predictability. In knowing what to expect at the end of the day. In having a place where emotions are allowed and love is steady.
When we stop trying to make every moment special, we start noticing the moments that actually matter.
The talks that happen when no one is in a hurry.
The laughter that shows up unexpectedly.
The quiet trust that builds when kids know they don’t have to perform to be loved.
Those moments don’t photograph well. But they shape who our kids become.
Letting Go of the Highlight Reel Mentality
One of the most freeing shifts I’ve made as a mom is releasing the idea that childhood needs to look a certain way to be meaningful.
I stopped measuring motherhood by moments worth posting and started paying attention to moments worth staying in.
Life slowed down—not because I planned it that way, but because it had to. And in that slowing, I found something steadier than magic.
Connection.
Connection doesn’t require energy you don’t have. It doesn’t require money or planning or perfection. It requires presence.
And presence is something we can offer, even in hard seasons.
If you’ve felt the weight of comparison or the pressure to make life look a certain way for your kids, you’re not alone. And you’re not failing for feeling tired.
What Our Kids Will Actually Remember
One day, our kids won’t remember every holiday or tradition the way we think they will.
They’ll remember whether home felt safe.
They’ll remember if they were allowed to feel deeply.
They’ll remember whether love stayed consistent when life got hard.
They’ll remember if they were seen.
They’ll remember how life felt—not how it looked.
That realization has changed the way I see motherhood entirely.
I no longer feel the need to apologize for seasons that weren’t shiny. I honor the strength it took to walk through them.
Motherhood Isn’t About Escaping Reality
We don’t serve our kids by pretending life is always light. We serve them by teaching them how to live well inside reality.
A childhood that includes grief, disappointment, or limitation isn’t damaged. It’s honest.
And honesty, paired with love, creates grounded kids who know how to navigate the world with empathy and resilience.
Grief taught me that my kids didn’t need a perfect version of me. They needed a present one.
A Word for the Mom Who Feels Like She’s Not Enough
If you’re reading this and thinking, I wish I could give my kids more, I want you to hear this clearly.
Your kids don’t need a magical childhood.
They need you.
They need your presence.
Your steadiness.
Your honesty.
Your love, right where life is—not where you wish it were.
Letting go of the pressure to make childhood magical isn’t lowering the bar. It’s redefining success.
Before you go, I’d love for you to comment and answer this:
What’s one expectation you’re releasing in motherhood right now?
Your words matter. Your story matters. And when you share, you help another mom feel a little less alone in the quiet spaces of raising kids in real life.
You’re doing better than you think. 💛
