We hope they remember the bedtime stories, the birthday parties, the vacations, the laughter around the dinner table, the inside jokes that somehow lasted for years, and the way we cheered louder than anyone else at their games, concerts, and milestones. We hope they remember feeling safe, feeling loved, and knowing without question that they always had someone in their corner.

Those are the memories we work so hard to create.

But lately, I've found myself wondering about a different question.

What if the moments that shaped my daughters weren't always the ones I planned?

What if they remember the look on my face when I was overwhelmed? The moments I lost my patience? The days my anxiety showed up before I did? The evenings I was emotionally exhausted and trying so hard to keep everything together that I forgot to simply be present?

If I'm honest, there are some things I hope my daughters forget.

Not because they didn't happen.

Because they came from a version of me that was surviving more than she was living.

For a long time, I believed being a good mother meant never letting my children see me struggle. I thought love meant protecting them from every imperfect part of me. If I could just hold it together, smile through the hard days, and keep moving, maybe they would never notice the weight I was carrying.

Looking back, I realize children notice far more than we give them credit for.

They notice the tension in your voice long before they understand why it's there. They notice when you're distracted, when you're overwhelmed, and when you're trying to convince everyone—including yourself—that you're fine. They may not have the words to describe what they're seeing, but children are incredibly observant. They don't just hear what we say; they absorb the emotional environment we create.

That realization used to fill me with guilt.

Now it fills me with purpose.

As a mother living with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder, there were seasons where I was trying to raise two beautiful girls while also learning how to manage emotions that often felt bigger than I knew what to do with. I loved my daughters with everything I had, but love doesn't automatically teach emotional regulation. It doesn't erase old wounds or instantly give you the tools you were never handed yourself.

I spent years trying to build the kind of childhood I wished I had experienced while simultaneously trying to heal from the parts of my own childhood that still followed me into adulthood. That's a difficult balancing act, and I know I'm not the only parent who's ever found themselves there.

Motherhood has a way of exposing every crack you didn't know was still there.

Children have an incredible ability to hold up a mirror. They'll reflect back your patience, your kindness, your resilience—and sometimes your fears, your stress, and the parts of yourself you thought you had hidden away. It's humbling. Sometimes it's heartbreaking. But it can also become one of the greatest opportunities for growth if we're willing to look honestly at what we see.

I hope my daughters forget the days I was overstimulated and everything felt louder than it should have. I hope they forget the afternoons where my patience ran thinner than I wanted it to. I hope they forget the moments when I carried stress from other parts of life into our home. I hope they forget the times I questioned whether I was enough, because even though those thoughts lived inside me, they were never about them.

But here's what I've learned.

Children don't need parents who never struggle.

They need parents who are willing to grow.

One of the biggest misconceptions about motherhood is that good moms never lose their patience or have difficult days. Social media has done a wonderful job of convincing us that everyone else is calmly folding laundry in matching pajamas while baking homemade muffins with a smile. Meanwhile, the rest of us are wondering who left an empty cereal box in the pantry... again... and whether it's too early to hide in the bathroom for five uninterrupted minutes.

Spoiler alert: it isn't.

Real motherhood is messy.

It's beautiful, exhausting, joyful, heartbreaking, hilarious, overwhelming, and deeply meaningful—sometimes all before lunchtime.

And despite what guilt tries to convince us, having difficult moments doesn't erase years of love.

That's a truth I wish I had understood much earlier.

For years, I measured myself by my hardest days instead of my entire story. One impatient moment felt bigger than a hundred loving ones. One mistake seemed louder than years of showing up, cheering them on, comforting them, and reminding them they could do hard things. Guilt has a funny way of shrinking our perspective until all we can see are the moments we wish we could take back.

Growth, however, widens that perspective again.

Growth reminds us that children don't remember a single moment in isolation. They remember patterns. They remember whether they felt loved. They remember whether they felt safe coming back after conflict. They remember whether home was a place where mistakes could be repaired instead of ignored.

And maybe that's what I hope my daughters remember most.

Not that I was perfect.

But that I kept coming back.

Coming back has become one of the most important parts of my motherhood journey.

For years, I believed a good mother was someone who never had to apologize. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that making a mistake meant I had failed. Looking back now, I realize I had it completely backwards. The strongest mothers aren't the ones who never get it wrong. They're the ones who are willing to come back after they do.

I've apologized to my daughters.

Not because I wanted them to carry the weight of my guilt, but because I wanted them to see something I never saw enough growing up—that adults can take responsibility too. That saying "I was wrong" doesn't make you weak. It makes you safe. It builds trust in a way perfection never could.

One of the biggest lessons I've learned is that relationships aren't built because nothing difficult ever happens. They're built because people choose each other after the difficult things happen. Families aren't strengthened by avoiding conflict. They're strengthened by repairing it.

I wish someone had taught me that when my girls were little.

Instead, I spent years believing I had to hide every struggle, every fear, every imperfection. I thought protecting them meant pretending I had everything under control. Now I understand that children don't need parents who never struggle. They need parents who show them what healthy growth looks like.

There were nights I lay awake replaying conversations in my head, wondering if I had said the wrong thing or reacted too quickly. There were days where I questioned every decision I made. Was I too strict? Too emotional? Too soft? Too protective? Motherhood has a way of making you second-guess yourself even on your best days, and if you're already someone who overthinks everything—welcome to the Olympics of mental gymnastics.

Spoiler alert: there's no gold medal.

Just cold coffee and wondering who left seventeen cups around the house.

As I've gotten older, I've realized that children aren't looking for flawless parents. They're looking for consistency. They're looking for love they don't have to earn. They're looking for someone who keeps showing up, even after a hard day, a misunderstanding, or a mistake.

That's what I hope my daughters remember.

Not the afternoons where I was overwhelmed.

Not the moments where my patience wore thin.

Not the days my own mental health made life feel heavier than it should have.

I hope those moments become tiny brushstrokes in a much bigger painting.

Because the bigger picture tells a different story.

It tells the story of a mother who never stopped trying.

A mother who learned.

A mother who changed.

A mother who loved fiercely enough to become more aware, more accountable, and more emotionally present as the years went on.

The truth is, I can't choose which memories my daughters will carry into adulthood.

None of us can.

But I can choose who I continue becoming.

And maybe that's the real gift motherhood gives us.

It reminds us that while we can't rewrite yesterday, we get another opportunity today.

Another opportunity to listen a little longer.

To hug a little tighter.

To apologize a little sooner.

To laugh a little louder.

To love a little better than we did yesterday.

Maybe that's what I hope my daughters remember most.

Not that I was the perfect mother.

But that I never stopped becoming a better one.

~Tj 🩷