We Need to Talk

So apparently that post I made the other day — the one about being nervous, about having my kids here this summer for the first time, about shifting from my worker-brain to my parent-brain and wondering if I was going to screw it all up — hit home for some people.

Especially younger folks.

People who are thinking about kids.
People who just had kids.
People who are quietly freaking out in the dark because parenthood is a lot and no one wants to admit they’re not completely at ease with it.

And yeah.

Of course it hit.

Because we’re not allowed to say we’re scared.

We’re not supposed to say we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. We’re supposed to post photos of smiling, sand-covered children at the beach while the sun glows in perfect golden-hour alignment and our carefully curated captions say something like “So grateful for these perfect moments with my perfect babies.”

#BLESSED

And I’m just over here going, like — ARE YOU OKAY? Did you cry in the car before you got to the beach? Did you forget the sunscreen? Did one of the kids scream for 25 minutes because the sand was “too pokey”? Did you spend three hours trying to get the sand out of the car afterward?

Because I did.

That’s my version.

And I’m not saying don’t post the beautiful stuff. I like the beautiful stuff. I’m just saying it’s not the whole story. And it’s not the most helpful story, especially if you’re out here thinking you’re the only one who doesn’t have it all figured out.

Parenting isn’t Pinterest.

Parenting is piles of laundry you meant to fold two days ago. It’s stepping on a LEGO barefoot in the middle of the night and trying not to scream because you don’t want to wake anyone up. It’s googling “is this rash normal” at 3 a.m. and remembering — again — that you should’ve just gone to med school.

Parenting is blood, sweat, and tears.
Ideally, only the parent’s blood.
Hopefully not too much of it.

And the reason I keep saying this — the reason I’m writing this now — is because I want more of that truth in the world. Not perfection. Not curated chaos, either — that’s its own weird genre.

Just… realness.

Reality.

The kind that says: “Hey. I’m tired and this is hard and also, I love them so much it cracks me open.”

I don’t have a grand thesis here. I don’t have answers. Just this: an opening shot across the bow. A flag in the ground that says maybe — just maybe — it’s okay to tell the truth out loud.

Maybe someone else needs to hear it.

Maybe you need to hear yourself say it.

So yeah. I’m nervous. I’m messy. I’m also showing up.
And if that’s you, too — welcome. Pull up a chair.
We’re not perfect, but we’re here.