What guilt takes, and what grace gives back
I didn’t expect guilt to be such a constant companion in motherhood. Sleepless nights, yes. Spit-up on every shirt, sure. Toys multiplying like rabbits, of course. But the heavy weight of guilt — that was the surprise.
It creeps in quietly, then sits heavy on my chest. Some days it feels like no matter what I do, it’s never enough for the little boy I love more than anything.
If I had to write it down, my guilt list would start like this:
EVERYTHING.
Seriously — who knew?
Since the day he was born, I’ve carried guilt over things big and small. The one that presses on me most these days is working motherhood.
Here’s the truth: I know working is what’s best for me, for Caleb, and for our family. I know we need my income. Most days, I even like working. I’m not wired to be home full-time; I’d go a little stir-crazy.
And yet… the guilt lingers.
On a typical day, I spend maybe four hours with him — one in the morning, three in the evening. The rest of the day, he’s with Jerry or my mom, which I’m grateful for. He’s surrounded by people who love him deeply. But still, the guilt asks its questions:
Am I with him enough?
Is our short time together really quality time?
Will he know that I’m his mom when I’m gone so much?
I worry about missing his first steps, his first clap, his first wobbly dance. I feel guilty when I lose patience with his cries, as if being gone all day means I should somehow return home perfect — endlessly patient, endlessly present. I feel guilty when I clean, or blog, or even sit down to watch TV, because shouldn’t I spend every second glued to him?
That’s the thing about motherhood: the guilt is relentless. No matter what you do, it whispers that it isn’t enough. You want to give your child the world, and you wonder how you possibly could, when you can barely keep the house together.
But I’m learning the whisper isn’t the whole story. Alongside the guilt, there’s joy in the small, ordinary moments — bedtime snuggles, sticky kisses, laughter spilling out of the backseat. Those are the reminders that connection doesn’t depend on the number of hours in a day, but on the love that fills them.
Motherhood will always hand me guilt, but it also hands me grace. I may never silence the voice that says I’m not enough, but I can look at my son and know the truth: he already thinks I am.
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