Mothering is the kind of work that keeps me in a constant state of questioning. Raising two daughters in a world that claims progress for women while simultaneously restricting their worth and rights feels both empowering and exhausting. I want to raise them to be strong and kind, bold and thoughtful—but sometimes I’m still learning how to be those things myself.
I really want to be a more patient mother. I know I am kind. I recognize my own enthusiastic ability to make small moments feel big, and recently, my girls are beginning to see my work and my passion come to life in ways that add greater context and meaning to who I am beyond being their mom. I hope that, in witnessing this, they’ll understand that growth is lifelong—and that it’s possible to love your family deeply while still evolving as a person.
Patience is necessary because it builds the space for that growth to happen—for them and for me. Without it, the noise of urgency drowns out the beauty of becoming.
And maybe that’s what I’m learning most in this season of motherhood: that becoming isn’t a sprint toward perfection, but a slow unfolding. My daughters don’t need me to be flawless; they need me to be present. They need to see that it’s okay to pause, to apologize, to begin again. That the real work of becoming a woman—of being a human—is messy and sacred all at once. Patience isn’t just about tempering frustration; it’s about honoring the time it takes to truly see each other.
It’s easy to get caught up in the noise of what we’re “supposed” to be doing—enrichment activities, perfect meals, carefully curated childhoods—but what if the greatest gift I give my daughters is the quiet confidence that they are enough, even on the days when everything feels undone? What if modeling self-compassion matters more than any schedule or checklist?
So I keep showing up. Sometimes joyfully, sometimes clumsily. I hug them tight, I say “I’m sorry,” I laugh when things fall apart. And through it all, I keep choosing patience—not because I have mastered it, but because I believe in the kind of love that takes its time.
And let’s be honest—sometimes patience looks less like serene wisdom and more like whisper-yelling “I love you, but please put your shoes on” through gritted teeth while reheating the same cup of coffee for the third time. It’s not always graceful, but it’s real.
This Mother’s Day, my wish for all mothers—whether brand new or long-seasoned—is the gift of patience. Patience with our children, yes, but also with ourselves. May we each find moments of stillness amidst the chaos, and may we remember that becoming the mothers we want to be takes time. The kind of time that moves slowly, tenderly, and full of grace.
Today is a gentle reminder that the heart of a mother is the quiet strength behind every scraped knee, every bedtime story, and every ordinary moment made extraordinary by love—Happy Mother’s Day to all who nurture, guide, and give so endlessly.
The Forty Files 