In those early days, I kept holding on to those words like they were the answer. Like if I just made it a bit further, I’d finally exhale. But here I am. Colic is over. We’re out of the newborn fog. He talks. He walks. But sleep? Still patchy. And somehow… it’s still hard. Some days, it feels like colic never left—it just changed form. He’s learning his emotions, and it’s intense. His meltdowns might have words now, but the volume? Still just as loud. The need? Just as constant.
In my head, I kept saying that when he could walk, things would get easier. That if I just held out for this next milestone, or the next one after that, eventually it would feel lighter. But the truth is—I’m still waiting for that moment. And that waiting? It’s quietly exhausting.
I remember when he started crawling, we said, “Just wait till he walks. He’ll tire himself out and finally sleep better.” He walked. Still didn’t sleep.He hated the pram, hated the car seat, always wanted to be held.
Now? He still can’t play alone. It’s “Mama, play with me” on repeat.
There’s still no space.
And I think that’s what I imagined “easy” would feel like:
more space.
More ease.
Less questioning myself.
More trusting myself.
But even that hasn’t come.
Getting out the door is still a daily challenge. I thought more independence would mean we could get ready at the same time—but now it’s tantrums about wanting the fire truck shirt that’s in the wash, or five more minutes to finish lining up his cars. Sometimes it feels harder than before.
People love to compare newborn life to toddlerhood—“Which is harder?” they ask. But to me, it’s not about which is harder. They’re both hard. Just hard in different ways.
Some days, I think back to how much I longed for this life—how deeply I wanted to be a mama. So when I find myself overwhelmed and tired, it hits harder. Accepting that something you dreamed of could feel so hard? That’s a truth I didn’t expect. And if you’ve felt that too, you’re not alone.
The tiredness now isn’t just physical. It’s layered. It’s the weight of someone needing you all the time. It’s the mental load of remembering everything. It’s the emotional labour of trying to hold it all together—for them, and for yourself. And some days, no matter how much I try to embrace the mess or “cherish the moment,” I just can’t. Because the moment is hard. And not every moment is meant to be cherished.
I’m also navigating this as an early childhood teacher. And that’s a whole other layer. People assume I have it all figured out. That I’ve studied every solution and live in a magical Montessori calm at home. But when they see me carrying my child out of the playground upside-down while he screams like a siren, there’s this flicker of realisation—Oh… she’s human too.
No degree, no experience, no philosophy makes motherhood easy.
And no one talks enough about the overwhelm that follows you through each stage. At some point, I stopped expecting it to get easier, and started learning to embrace the overwhelm. Not perfectly. Not always gracefully. But with intention.
I used to think a village would solve it. That if I just had more support, more people to call, more hands to help—it would all get easier. But I don’t have a village. I moved across the world. I love my life here, but the truth is, I’ve had to find my own way. And instead of wishing for something I don’t have, I’ve worked on accepting the village I don’t have and doing what I can with what I do.
And I’m still rebuilding. Still working on trusting myself. Still unlearning the idea that needing space, needing help, needing rest makes me any less of a good mama. It doesn’t. It just makes me human. And slowly, gently, I’m rebuilding my confidence in this new version of me.
If your child is learning how to express big emotions and you’re feeling overwhelmed, know that it’s not a reflection of how well you’re doing. In fact, it’s a totally normal part of early childhood development. But just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it’s easy.
So here’s my gentle call: let’s stop tossing around “It gets easier” like it’s a promise.
Because for some mamas, that promise becomes a pressure.
Dear mama—maybe it did get easier for you. That’s beautiful. But for others, it might not. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And that’s not failure—that’s just life in seasons.
Instead of hoping for easier, maybe we need to focus on accepting each season, with all its chaos and magic and noise.
Not waiting for it to end.
Just finding our way through it.
You’re not doing it wrong.
It’s just… still hard.
Maybe motherhood doesn’t get easier—it just asks us to grow in new ways. And that growth? That’s what makes us stronger, not weaker.
P.S. If this hit close to home, you’re not alone. I share more real, honest mama moments like this in my newsletter—plus tiny tea break reminders to breathe, reflect, and keep going.
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