The Mother I Wanted to Be, and the Mother I Had to Become: A Single Mom’s Quiet Grief

When Strength Becomes the Only Option: The Hidden Grief of Single Motherhood

I came across a TikTok recently that caught me completely off guard. It wasn’t dramatic or loud or meant to go viral- it was just a mother being honest. A single mom, pouring her heart out about the kind of mother she never got to be. 

She said she wasn’t soft anymore.
She wasn’t the cuddler, the comforter, the warm, gentle place her own mother once was for her.
Instead, she had become the enforcer.
The provider.
The protector.
The parent who carried everything on her back, even when she had nothing left to give.

She admitted she didn’t know how to be soft on a regular basis. Not because she lacked love, but because softness is a luxury in a life where you’re the only line of defense.

And what broke me wasn’t just her words… it was the comment section.

One woman said, “I found myself becoming the angry man I swore I left.”
Another wrote, “Single moms are robbed of the mothering experience we deserve.”
Someone else added, “Dads make everything so hard for me with zero acknowledgement of how it affects his kids.”
And the original poster responded with something that hit a part of my soul:
“When I see a father with his children genuinely being a father, it hurts a part of me for them that I’ll never be able to heal.”

I felt that.
Every syllable.

Because as a single mom, especially one who raised a son who begged for his father, I’ve been there. I’ve lived in that place where you’re responsible for everything, including the emotional environment you’re drowning in. I’ve tried so hard to stay the nurturer even while fighting my own battles, my own health, my own exhaustion, my own heartbreak.

And let me tell you:
Trying to be soft while living in survival mode is a war most people don’t see.

We don’t talk enough about the grief single mothers carry, the grief of the mother we wanted to be. The mother who would have more patience. More gentleness. More time. More emotional availability. More margin. More help.

We don’t talk about how single moms mourn the version of childhood they wish their kids could have had.
We don’t talk about the guilt that sits heavy on our chests at night.
We don’t talk about the jealousy that flares when we see a father actually show up for his kids, not because we resent the dad, but because we ache for what our children deserved.

And we definitely don’t talk about how hard it is to stay soft when life keeps hardening you.

But here’s something I’m learning:

Even if I wasn’t always the picture-perfect nurturer.
Even if I had to be the enforcer, the provider, the protector.
Even if I had to be both mom and dad, soft and stern, gentle and strong.

I was still there.
I still showed up.
I still loved them fiercely.

Sometimes “soft” doesn’t look like cuddles and warm cookies and soothing words.
Sometimes “soft” looks like fighting for a child who feels abandoned.
Like holding the line when you want to collapse.
Like protecting them from the very person who should have protected you too.

And sometimes, the mother we had to become is the exact one our kids needed to survive.

To any single mom grieving the soft mother she wanted to be:
You’re not alone.
You’re not failing.
You’re rebuilding a life from the ground up with strength most people will never understand.

And even if you had to become tougher than you ever wanted to be, you are still raising children who know what resilience looks like. You’re showing them courage. You’re showing them loyalty. You’re showing them what it means to stay- even when others walked away.

You are not “less than” for being both soft and strong.
You are more.
And your kids will one day understand just how powerful that is.

Paid Off, Worn Out, and Still Running (Kind of Like Me)

 I was sitting in the Walgreens parking lot today, waiting on a prescription, when I noticed all the shiny new cars around me- the ones with heated steering wheels, backup cameras, and monthly payments that look like rent.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my 2008 Jeep, with a hood that’s shedding paint like a snake in spring. The luxury? It’s paid for. That’s right. No car payment. No “your bill is due” reminders. Just me and my gloriously unbothered old Jeep.

Sure, the tires are new- because I do prefer my children alive-  but otherwise the thing is aging like a feral cat: difficult, loud, and somehow still surviving.

My dad used to say new cars were a lousy investment. “Keep an old one,” he’d tell me. “If you learn how to work on it, you can always keep it running.”

I thought he was being dramatic. Turns out, he was teaching me economics, survival, and emotional endurance all at once. It wasn’t about the car- it was about not relying on things (or people) that fall apart the first time life sneezes on them.

And somewhere along the way, those lessons bled straight into motherhood.

Because moms- especially single moms- are experts in the quiet trade-offs nobody sees.

We keep the same winter coat for seven years, but make sure our kids get new ones the second theirs seem “a little snug.”

We wear tennis shoes until the tread is basically a suggestion, but our kids somehow have three pairs from the latest trend cycle and the backup pair “just in case.”

We skip buying our favorite snacks so the pantry can be filled with their favorites. We pretend we don’t even like snacks.

And on the nights when there’s just enough food for everyone except us, we suddenly “aren’t hungry.” Kids never notice. They’re too busy eating the meal we quietly made sure they had.

These sacrifices don’t come with fanfare. Nobody applauds them. They’re just woven into the rhythm of everyday life- the invisible currency of keeping your children safe, fed, confident, warm, and ready to face the world without carrying the weight you carry.

My Jeep may be rough. My coat may be old. My tennis shoes may have seen better traction back when I did, too. But my kids have what they need- and a lot of what they want- because I decided that my comfort could wait.

One day, maybe they’ll understand. Maybe they’ll look back and realize love isn’t loud. It’s not always shiny. Sometimes it looks like driving an old Jeep in a parking lot full of new cars… and being proud of it.

So why does the grass always look greener on the other side- especially to our kids? Maybe because they’ve always played on grass we watered. They don’t see the long nights, the stretched dollars, the patched jackets, or the worn-down tread. They just see a world where things show up for them, because we quietly made sure they did. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the real sign that we’re doing it right is that they never had to wonder how the bills got paid or why we were still wearing that same winter coat. 

To every mom out there doing the same invisible math every day- choosing stability over sparkle, love over luxury- just know this: the grass is greener because of you!

The Everyday Parent vs. The Fun Parent: What Kids Don’t Always See

Kids can be brutally honest, but also completely blind. They’ll walk into the kitchen, open a fridge that you made sure was stocked, pull on the clothes you just washed, toss their backpack down (that you probably bought on a last-minute Target run), and still act like you’ve done absolutely nothing for them.

Then they come back from a weekend at Dad’s. Oh, the stories. Every second was “amazing.” He was funny. He was cool. They went out to eat. No bedtimes. No nagging. All fun, no stress.

And of course, that must mean life is like that at his house all the time, right? Because Dad doesn’t have bills, or work, or actual responsibilities. He’s just permanently stuck in vacation mode.

And when the glow wears off, when homework and chores and regular life kick back in, what happens? Suddenly Mom is the villain. Mom, who does the morning and afternoon carpool line. Mom, who makes the breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Mom, who pays the field trip fees, buys the soccer cleats, remembers the permission slips, and holds them while they cry after a fight with a friend. But apparently, all of that gets wiped out by one game of candy poker at Dad’s.

Let’s not forget the financial side. Ballet classes, baseball uniforms, field trips, birthday presents for every kid in their class - who pays for those? Mom. New shoes when theirs mysteriously vanish into thin air? Mom. The emergency $30 for “school spirit day” tomorrow that you find out about at 9 p.m.? Yep, Mom again. Dad might clap proudly at the recital or ball game, but the ticket to even be there was bought with Mom’s sacrifices.

But do kids realize that? No. To them, ballet and field trips just exist. Clothes magically appear in their drawers. They don’t know that you’re quietly juggling bills, stretching dollars, and giving up things for yourself so they don’t have to go without. They don’t see that Dad gets to swoop in, play hero, and never once feel the weight of what it took to make that “fun” possible.

And then it happens. Out of nowhere, usually during an argument or a hard day, your child drops the bomb:

“Maybe I should just live with Dad.”

It doesn’t matter if they’re seven or seventeen - those words never stop hitting like a knife to the chest. In one sentence, every sacrifice you’ve ever made gets erased. The field trips, the hospital nights, the birthday parties you pulled off when money was tight… gone. And the worst part? It’s not even about Dad - it’s about the illusion of Dad. The highlight reel. The “fun parent” performance.

But when your kid says it, it doesn’t feel like they’re rejecting the illusion. It feels like they’re rejecting you. It feels like they’re saying, You’re not enough. You’re too strict. You’re too boring. You’re not fun. And it cuts deep because you know damn well you’re the one who makes sure they even have a life to enjoy in the first place.

Sure, go live with Dad. See how fast the groceries restock themselves. See who actually signs your permission slips, who buys your school fundraiser junk, who knows which brand of cereal you’ll actually eat when you’re moody. Go ahead - test the theory.

And here’s the kicker: even when they’re teenagers, dripping in sarcasm and rolling their eyes at everything you say, you know the truth. At the end of a brutal school day, when they walk in with tears threatening to spill, it’s not Dad they turn to. It’s Mom. Because deep down, they know who can handle the hard parts. They know who will actually listen, who will talk them through the mess, who will carry their emotions like it’s second nature.

Dad might get the highlight reel. Mom gets the whole movie - every scene, every meltdown, every triumph. And yes, it hurts like hell when the star of that movie looks you in the face and says they’d rather change directors. But the truth is, they wouldn’t even have a story without you.

So to the moms holding it all together, even when it feels like no one notices: you are the heartbeat of your child’s world. You are the reason there’s food on the table, clean clothes in the drawer, and comfort when life feels too heavy. You’re the steady voice that talks them down when they’re falling apart, the arms that hold them when they can’t hold themselves, the safe place they will always come back to - whether they realize it now or not.

And yes, sometimes it feels like you’re invisible. Sometimes it feels like they’ve forgotten every sacrifice, every late night, every quiet way you’ve held their lives together. But here’s the truth: they haven’t forgotten. They can’t. Your love is stitched into the fabric of who they are. It shows up in their courage, in their laughter, in the way they carry themselves through the world.

One day - maybe when they have kids of their own, maybe in a quiet moment years from now - they will finally see it. They’ll see you. And when they do, they’ll realize the real hero of their story was never the one with the fun weekends. It was the one who showed up every single day, with love that never quit.

Because at the end of the day, it was always you.