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.

Raising Kids for a Future We Can’t Predict: High Expectations in a Post-Pandemic Economy

 Adaptability: The Real Skill We Can Teach

Parenting in a rapidly changing economy was hard enough before. But now, after a generation of kids went through “shutdown isolation mode,” we’re expected to not only teach them how to manage money, plan careers, and survive adulthood- but also how to interact with other humans without panicking.

As an elder millennial, I can barely predict how my own budget will survive the month, let alone map out a full economic plan for a teenager. Meanwhile, schools are supposed to teach kids to budget for a world where rent is skyrocketing, wages are frozen, and half the careers they might pursue don’t exist yet. Oh, and don’t forget: many of these kids are just learning how to look someone in the eye and carry on a conversation. Because, you know, two years of isolation totally didn’t mess with their social skills.

So yes, the expectations are high. Unrealistically high. We’re told to prepare our kids for an unpredictable economy while simultaneously teaching them soft skills that even the adults are still learning. Financial literacy? Sure. But maybe first teach them how to survive a family dinner without retreating under the table. Career readiness? Absolutely- but let’s start with explaining that not every Zoom call needs to start with a TikTok reference.

The truth is, I can teach them values that last- resilience, adaptability, curiosity, and empathy. These skills will carry them further than any perfectly executed budget spreadsheet or futuristic career roadmap. Because the economy will keep shifting, industries will keep evolving, and yes, life will keep throwing curveballs. The goal isn’t to “future-proof” our kids. It’s to raise humans capable of thriving despite the uncertainty.

The truth is, at this point, I can guide them, share lessons I’ve learned the hard way, and help them develop values that will carry them forward- resilience, adaptability, and common sense. I can’t control the economy, predict the housing market, or guarantee a perfect career path. What I can do is support them as they make their own decisions, stumble, learn, and grow into adults capable of handling uncertainty. Because raising an older teen isn’t about shielding them from the world- it’s about preparing them to step into it with confidence, even if I wouldn’t always make the same choices myself. 

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.

Writing My Way Through

 

I’ve been deep in the process of writing a book lately. I didn’t set out with some polished plan or publishing dream, it just started with getting things out of my head and onto the page. Turns out, writing your own story is a lot harder than it sounds.

Some of what I’m writing about touches on the harder parts of motherhood, survival, chronic illness, identity, and the kind of love that teaches you things whether you’re ready or not. I’m not going into full detail here, that’s for the book, but I’ve been peeling back layers I didn’t know were still there. It’s been healing in some ways, stressful in others. Emotional, always.

It’s also a learning curve. There’s more to writing than just pouring your heart out. I’m figuring it out as I go, and it’s taught me just how much I’ve held in over the years. Writing it all down feels like taking inventory of things I’ve lived through and asking, "What do I want to carry forward?"

I don’t think I’ll be giving regular updates on the book. That feels like too much pressure. But I might share little pieces here and there - things that didn’t make it into the chapters but still deserve a place. Moments, thoughts, maybe even old journal scraps that I’ve carried with me.

So if you’re reading this, thanks for being here. Thanks for letting me be a little messy and unsure. This blog has always been a space for me to breathe out what I’ve been holding in. Writing a book is just a louder version of that, I guess.

Still writing. Still healing. Still learning. 

-H

Someone Should Have Told Me to Hang Up the Phone

 Someone Should Have Told Me to Hang Up the Phone

I think I’m getting old.

Now, I know age is just a number—and according to the doctor’s office assistant who complimented my “youthful glow,” I’m apparently winning that game—but still. Age sneaks up on you, not with gray hairs or back pain (okay, sometimes with back pain), but with moments. Moments like this one...

I’m sitting in a waiting room, minding my business, when I overhear a teenage girl chatting on the phone. Correction: announcing to the world that her boyfriend is currently on the toilet, doing some gastrointestinal heavy lifting. Classy.

I wasn’t even embarrassed for him. I was embarrassed for her. She was there with a friend, laughing, scrolling, existing in a cloud of youthful chaos. I leaned over, trying to be lighthearted, and asked her friend how old they were.

“Nineteen,” she said.

Nineteen. And the girl on the phone? She was talking to her boyfriend about her prenatal visit.

Their conversation turned into a mini argument right there in the waiting room. He didn’t seem thrilled about anything, especially not the baby shower coming up in a few weeks. She offered to drive several hours just to pick him up, to which he replied that this would interfere with his “job.” And by “job,” I mean… illegal extracurriculars. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say she had to remind him that no, she didn’t want substances in her car—again—because getting arrested once was apparently enough.

My eye-rolling reached DEFCON 1.

I don’t know if it was the mom in me, or the “been there, done that, got the baby tee” in me—but something snapped. I looked that girl dead in the eye and said, “Hang up. Hang. Up. The. Phone.”

It didn’t matter that I didn’t know her. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t technically my business. All I could think was: Someone should have told me to hang up.

I got called in for my appointment and didn’t see how it all played out. Maybe she listened, maybe she didn’t. But in that moment, I couldn’t stay quiet. Because I was that girl once. Nineteen, pregnant, in over my head. Running in circles with the wrong crowd. Trying to navigate adulthood with a baby on the way and a mind still halfway in high school.

Nobody told me to hang up the phone. Nobody pulled me aside and said, “Hey, that guy isn’t going to be there when it matters. You’re not in the right space to raise a baby with someone who’s already acting like a ghost.”

But who would have told me? Who even could have told me? It’s not like people were out here giving unsolicited wisdom bombs at random OB appointments.

And yet… maybe they should’ve been.

Now, here we are—an entire generation of young girls growing into young mothers. Many will end up doing it alone. Some of them have moms who are doing their best, but don't know the full story. Some of them are hiding things. Some are scared. And some, like me back then, don’t even realize they need saving from the path they’re on.

So here’s the question: Can we, as a society, butt in? Can we speak up, from one mom to another, and say “Hey, this road? It’s a dead end. Try turning here instead.”

Can we do it with love and without judgment? Can we throw out lifelines before the ship fully sinks?

I see so many single moms struggling, so many reaching out in Facebook groups, asking for advice, support, strength. What if we could get to them before that point? What if a little truth-telling in a waiting room was the start of something better?

Maybe we’re not just getting older. Maybe we’re becoming the voices we wish we had. The ones who say, “Hang up the phone, girl. There’s a better life waiting.”

The Archaic Use of Guilt Tripping

 Breaking the Cycle: The Archaic Use of Guilt Tripping

Ah, the classic boomer move: "I did this for you, so now you owe me." It's a tried-and-true tactic that’s been passed down through generations like a family heirloom—only less glamorous. And while it might work for getting the dishes done, it sure doesn't do much for emotional connection.

But wait, it gets better! The grandparents chime in too, unintentionally stacking on more "obligations" to the pile. Whether it’s a favor, a gift, or a well-meaning piece of advice, the cycle of emotional debt becomes a

never-ending chain. It's as if emotional manipulation is the family tradition no one ever signed up for. But here's the kicker: the problem isn’t just that we feel obligated, it’s that we don’t even realize it’s happening.

So, what now? Well, it’s time to break that cycle. It might sound impossible—like trying to change a family recipe that’s been passed down for decades—but it’s doable. Start with communication. No more “you owe me” or "I did this for you" guilt trips. Instead, let’s speak up, set boundaries, and show love without strings attached. Imagine a family dynamic where everyone feels supported instead of indebted. It’s not just a dream; it’s a choice.

How do we break this cycle? Start small. Have a conversation with your loved ones. Be honest, but approach it with care. You don’t have to confront decades of patterns all at once. Let them know how you feel, and ask for what you need. It may feel uncomfortable at first, but in the long run, it’ll lead to healthier relationships. Set boundaries around the "you owe me" mentality, and make it clear that your love and support come without strings attached. Most importantly, keep an open heart and mind. Change takes time, but it's worth it.

For Kids...It’s Hard, But Worth It: And hey, for the younger generation navigating these dynamics—breaking the cycle isn’t easy. It may feel like you're fighting an uphill battle at times, but keep in mind that you’re not just reshaping your own future. You’re setting a new example for the next generation, showing them what healthy, balanced relationships look like. So, take a deep breath, be kind to yourself, and remember that change takes time. But the effort? Absolutely worth it.