The Mirror of Motherhood

Somewhere between self-blame and love, motherhood keeps offering me the chance to choose repair over perfection.

Sometimes I wake with anxiety about my kids. And often, the story playing in my mind sounds like, this is probably my fault.

Motherhood (like any deeply bonded relationship) has a way of holding up our reflection when we least expect it. When fear arrives as self-blame, I try not to push it away. I let it be, welcoming compassion and understanding to meet it. It makes sense. Children are powerful mirrors, and when we care this deeply it is both natural and confronting to feel our own stories stir in the spaces where we love the most.

For months I’ve been holding myself in this tension, between empathy and the fear of failing them. And then one morning, wisdom whispered something beautiful. She reminded me that my purpose is not to create perfect versions of myself. My purpose is far more poetic, meaningful, and tangible than perfection. Thank goodness... though surprisingly, that can be hard to accept.

In this work, we are given the opportunity to re-parent ourselves. And one of the most profound pathways for that is motherhood. I’ve come to understand that my role as a mother is not to have everything figured out, but to heal through experience while creating a safe container for my children to explore, feel, and develop.

And I’m learning that safety is not the same as perfection.

This becomes especially clear when my child triggers me. In those moments, motherhood offers several powerful invitations (ones that exist in many close relationships, though they may wear different faces).

First, I can learn to accept my child in their moment of pain, need, or overwhelm, and offer them empathy, rather than correction. This kind of presence cultivates resilience and a healthy capacity for interdependence.

Second, I get to prioritize repair over perfection. Rupture is inevitable in any relationship. Repair is what creates safety. Repair is what teaches consistency, respect and worth within our connection with our kids.

And third, I am invited to turn inward. I can acknowledge my own inner world (the discomfort, the tenderness, the activation) and allow healing for the little girl inside me who longs for the same acceptance and repair I’m offering my child. Often, this is why the trigger exists in the first place.

What triggers us reveals unmet needs. And in the throes of motherhood (or any role that asks us to surrender so deeply) the parts of us that are most deprived can become loud. They can tangle with what feels like a lack of capacity to be with the mess, noise and emotional demand. This can land as shame or guilt, especially if we’re unconsciously striving for constant joy and delight… an impossible and unrealistic standard. 

When I allow my child their limitations, struggles, and discomforts, without collapsing into self-blame or rushing to fix things to avoid the feeling of failure, I discover something else becomes possible. I can hold complexity, expand, and stay flexible rather than rigid. I can be with their dysregulation, even when I recognize that I may have influenced the pattern.

This, I believe, is one of the most poignant acts of self‑love.

To love and accept a child who mirrors your own faults and limitations. To stay present with someone who touches the parts of you you’ve tried to hide. To meet them with empathy and stillness (not to change or solve, but simply to be with them) is to reach deep into your own story of rejection and offer it something new.

An embrace of affirmation. 
I am loved in my imperfections.