Before I became a parent, I was constantly told that the love I would feel for my children would be unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Friends, family, and even strangers in grocery store aisles would exclaim, “Holding your baby is the most incredible feeling!” I was excited, but when I finally held my daughter, all I felt was an overwhelming sense of dread. Would I drop her? Was I equipped to raise her properly? Had we even picked the right name?
This fear only compounded my anxiety. If I was scared, did that mean I was somehow a terrible mother? Where was that promised wave of love? Was there something inherently wrong with me?
It wasn’t until two weeks later that the fear began to subside. One night, at 2 a.m., I found myself crying as my baby wailed, “Please, I’m doing my best! Just stop crying.” To my surprise, she did. In that absurd moment, I realized that she, too, was just figuring things out. The fear dissipated a bit.
I recalled this experience when a well-meaning relative remarked that this stage with my baby and three-year-old was a “golden time.” “You’ll miss it when it’s gone,” she said. “It was the happiest time of my life.” I sat there, surrounded by the chaos of parenting—diapers, tantrums, and endless messes—wondering if I was doing something wrong because I didn’t feel that same joy.
The abundance of parenting guides and how-to websites insist that every problem can be resolved, that with enough firmness and patience, any issue can be tackled. The underlying message seems to be that if you’re not feeling happy, it’s your fault.
Honestly, I wish we could eliminate the word “happy” from the parenting lexicon. The idea that bliss is the ultimate goal of raising children is unrealistic. Life is messy and challenging, and not all problems resolve themselves overnight. Our self-help culture often implies that every issue can be fixed, but when your toddler doesn’t grasp that they shouldn’t pee on the floor, no amount of advice can help.
No parent who has ever found themselves on the floor in tears because of the chaos around them is broken. No mother who looks at her child with sheer panic needs repair. And no parent should feel guilty for wishing to escape the sticky, poop-scented living room. Instead of more books advising us on how to be the perfect parent, I wish there were resources that encouraged us to embrace reality—with all its chaos, joy, frustration, anxiety, and fear.
I’ve had enough of the constant push for happiness.
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In summary, parenthood is a blend of love and fear, joy and frustration. It’s time to let go of the unrealistic expectation of constant happiness and accept the beautiful messiness that comes with raising children.