From a young age, I dreamed of becoming a mother. This desire grew into an all-consuming need that influenced every decision I made, shaping my future aspirations. I was determined to have a child of my own, no matter the obstacles.
Five wonderful years of marriage passed, yet my original timeline for motherhood—one I had created in my youth—slipped away. I must have spent a fortune on pregnancy tests, each time inhaling deeply and hoping for a positive result. I thought that perhaps I could will a baby into existence, believing that those two pink lines could appear through sheer willpower. As time went by, the pressure mounted; I felt like I was racing against time, battling against my own body, which seemed to resist its natural purpose. After another two years, friends and family stopped asking when we would become parents, as if they too had lost faith in my ability to conceive. Then, just two months after celebrating our seven-year anniversary, the unexpected happened: I was finally pregnant.
My husband and I meticulously prepared for our son’s arrival. The nursery looked like it belonged in a magazine. Our hospital bag was packed and ready. I had memorized parenting books and crafted a birth plan that was a blend of research and obsessive detail. But none of our preparations could have braced us for the E. coli infection I contracted, which I unwittingly passed to my premature son, who struggled for breath in the ICU. The moment I had longed for turned into a scene of chaos and vulnerability. I was not ready to spend my days anxiously watching over my newborn while entrusting him to strangers at night.
I also wasn’t prepared to endure a week in the hospital recovering, nor to develop a severe allergy to the medication intended to ease my discomfort. I was caught off guard by my son’s resistance to breastfeeding and his sudden colicky episodes during his second month. Nothing unfolded as I had envisioned; nothing felt right. Where were the perfectly staged newborn photos? Where was the instant bond I had anticipated during feedings? Why didn’t my maternal instincts kick in to soothe my baby’s cries? Even though I had finally filled the void in my heart with my child, I felt a profound sense of disappointment.
This wasn’t the dream I had envisioned—this was not the culmination of years filled with longing and envy at every pregnancy announcement I encountered. Sadly, I had experienced this sense of disillusionment before. It happened during the challenging first year of marriage when I realized that even my heart’s desire for companionship came with its own set of struggles. It surfaced during my brief teaching career, a noble pursuit that had its own challenges. And it struck again during the financially draining phase of home ownership, despite my yearning for respect and social status.
All of these experiences shared a common thread: they were rooted in unrealistic expectations about what life would be like. I had assumed that each dream realized would bring complete satisfaction. However, this led to a cycle of disappointment, pushing me to chase new ambitions in search of happiness. But what I was really after was perfection. I wanted all the joy without the pain, yet true fulfillment lies deeper than surface-level satisfaction.
Happiness is recognizing that my son has triumphed over tremendous odds and is now flourishing. It’s about being a beacon of hope for those grappling with infertility or dealing with complications in childbirth. It’s about appreciating how my challenges have equipped me with confidence as a mother. It’s witnessing the joy reflected in my healthy, happy, and kind little boy.
I had unintentionally placed overly high expectations on my son, hoping he would solve my problems. In doing so, I limited him and overlooked his individuality. He is more than just my source of happiness or the approval of others—he is wonderfully imperfect and a constant source of joy.
Letting go of my quest for perfection will be an ongoing struggle, but it is essential and rewarding. Each time I embrace reality over fantasy, I begin to appreciate the richness of my experiences. When I focus too much on attaining perfection, I risk missing the beautiful moments unfolding right before my eyes. I want to savor every second with my son and the wild journey of parenthood, regardless of the ups and downs. I want it all.
This article originally appeared on July 20, 2016.