My Children Grew Up With Different Versions of Me

There are moments when I watch myself parenting my younger son and quietly think:

My older son did not grow up with this version of me.

And honestly… he agrees.

Sometimes he jokes that it doesn’t even feel like the same family.

And maybe he’s right.

I became a mother for the first time when I was still trying to become myself. I was young, emotionally overwhelmed, carrying my own unprocessed baggage, trying to survive adulthood while learning motherhood at the same time. We were figuring out life — financially, emotionally, relationally. There were relocations, career struggles, long work hours, stress, and the constant pressure of trying to “hold everything together.”

Looking back now, I realize how much of my nervous system was living in survival mode.

And survival mode does not leave much room for emotional presence.

I loved my son deeply. That was never absent.

But love and presence are not always experienced in the same way by a child. Sometimes our intentions do not fully reflect in our actions.

There were days I was physically there but emotionally exhausted.

Days I lost my temper because stress had nowhere else to go.

Days work consumed me so completely that I missed moments I wish I could revisit now.

Sometimes I feel my older son grew up too independently, too early.

His father was often the more emotionally available parent in those years. In my mind, I was trying to build stability for the family while quietly losing touch with myself in the process.

At one point, I had decided I would never have a second child. Motherhood had felt heavy. In fact, there was a phase when I wasn’t even sure whether I truly wanted to be a mother, or whether I was unconsciously trying to fulfill the societal story many of us grow up hearing — that every woman should become a mother one day!

Then gradually, life started settling. We relocated in search of greener pastures. My career took off. Financial stability came in. I slowly started taking time for myself. Life softened around the edges.

And somewhere in between leaving the corporate rush, reconnecting with art, rebuilding myself slowly, and taking care of my emotional well-being and relationships… I changed too.

Then, eleven years later, life surprised us. Ironically, it was my older son who convinced us to have another baby because he wanted a sibling.

And something inside me knew this time would be different.

This time, I wanted to do it differently.

So yes, my younger son is growing up with a very different mother.

A mother who understands her emotional patterns more than before instead of simply reacting from them.

A mother who pauses more.

Listens more.

Repairs faster after conflict.

Creates emotional safety more intentionally.

And if Iam honest, there was a time this realization filled me with guilt.

A quiet grief many mothers rarely speak about openly:

What if my first child received the most exhausted version of me?

But over time, motherhood and my own inner work taught me something important:

At that point in my life, I parented from the level of awareness, emotional capacity, support, and coping skills that I had access to then.

And I have slowly come to terms with the idea that perfect parenting does not exist.

The inner work has also taught me to look back with honesty without turning past memories into a lifelong journey of guilt and self-punishment. So instead of pretending I did everything right, I chose something else.

I chose honest conversations.

I have apologized to my son many times — not from shame, but from accountability and love.

And maybe that matters too. Because today, I believe children do not need perfect parents.

They need parents who can reflect.

Parents who can acknowledge hurt.

Parents who can apologize.

Parents who can say:“I wish I had known then what I know now.”

One thing motherhood has taught me is this:

Every mother is raising a child while also carrying the unfinished stories of her own life.

Some are parenting while grieving.

Some while surviving emotionally.

Some while healing relationships.

Some while battling exhaustion silently.

And most of us are doing the best we can with the emotional tools we currently have.

I know that does not erase impact.

But honesty can create compassion.

So today, when I look at both my sons, I simply see different seasons of motherhood

I see evolution.

I see the journey of a woman slowly becoming more aware, more emotionally available, more grounded within herself. And maybe that, too, is part of motherhood.❤️