An Apology To The Mother I Was

For every new mom who didn’t know how much she was already doing right.

I flew out east recently with my husband and our almost-six-year-old daughter. It was her first flight since she was four months old—back when the world looked so different. When I was so different. And in the quiet moments on the plane, between the snacks and seatbelt reminders, I found myself sitting with a version of me I haven’t visited in a long time. The version who was brand new to motherhood. The one who thought she’d get to do it again. The one who had no idea how fleeting those firsts would be. This is for her.

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To the version of me who was newly 33 & a brand new, first time mom—

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for how hard I was on you. How I let the weight of perfectionism, the pressure to do everything “right,” and the never-ending swirl of unsolicited advice steal so many of your earliest moments of motherhood.

You were exhausted. You were drowning in love and fear and hormones and sleep deprivation. You were trying so hard. And you didn’t know—how could you?—that those days would be the only ones like them.

You thought there’d be more.

You thought you’d get to do it again. That one day you’d bring home another newborn, that you’d be ready this time. More grounded. More present. More able to soak it all in. You had no idea that the first time would also be the last.

And now—now, I look back, and I ache for you.

I wish I’d wrapped my arms around you. I wish I’d whispered, “you are doing a damn good job.”

I wish someone had told you to slow down. To stop performing for the camera and start capturing things for you—for your heart, for your memory, for the long, complicated future that was coming whether you were ready or not.

I wish I’d let you rest.

Let you revel.

Let you cry and laugh and not feel guilty about any of it.

Because you were more than enough.

And you didn’t know it.

You thought you were failing, when you were actually surviving. Loving. Nurturing. Becoming.

I’m sorry I didn’t let you see that.

You deserved more gentleness. More grace. More reminders that motherhood isn’t about doing—it’s about being. Being there. Being real. Being human.

And you were, in every way.

I owe you not just an apology, but a confession: I miss you. I miss the version of us who was trying so hard she didn’t even know she was enough. And I carry sadness for what we didn’t get, for what we missed while we were busy trying to be perfect.

But I carry pride too.

Because you were her very first home. And you did that part exactly right.

You loved her with everything you had, even when you didn’t know what you were doing. And that love—the way you poured it out, even through cracked edges and anxious thoughts—that love has shaped who she is today.

She remembers. Even if you don’t. Even if the days blur together now, or feel like they slipped too fast through your tired fingers. She remembers the softness of your voice, the rhythm of your heartbeat, the way your arms were the only place she ever wanted to be.

You gave her safety. You gave her everything.

And in the moments when I’m flooded with longing for what didn’t happen, for what couldn’t be—I remind myself that this happened. You and her. Those early, sacred, impossibly hard and wildly beautiful days. They mattered.

And you mattered, too.

With love and deep, deep gratitude,

Me

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We don’t always know how much we’ll miss a moment until it’s already gone. And sometimes, it takes years—and healing, and heartbreak, and reflection—to see just how hard we were trying to hold it all together.

If you’re reading this and you’re in those early days, please hear me when I say: you’re doing enough.

You are enough.

Give yourself the grace you deserve now, not just the apology you deserve years down the line.