I'm Not Enjoying Every Moment — And That's O.K

Because loving your baby and feeling like you are just not cutting it can coexist perfectly

It happened on a Tuesday in, or around, the year oh, 3:17 a.m. From Day 1, however, I was crying while I was holding my baby—my shirt blotchy with milk, my eyelids heavy and my brain inching toward its own thoughts: Why am I crying? Why am I not enjoying this? Am I doing this wrong?

The infant had finally fallen asleep, and I sat there in the dark, exhausted and empty in some bizarre fashion. I loved my child, of course — that wasn't up for debate — but I was also tired and alone and grieving for parts of me that I hadn't realized were gone.

And, in that moment, a tiny voice inside whispered: "You don't have to love every second. And that doesn't make you a bad mom." It's the first time I've ever allowed myself to feel what I was feeling, rather than what I thought I should be feeling, and it was liberating. And then with that breath, something shifted. I knew what I was experiencing was not exactly failure. It was just real life. And, most immediately, I was not alone.

What's Wrong With "Soak It All In"

From the moment you go public with the news of your pregnancy, the letters arrive: "Enjoy every moment." "They grow up so fast." "These are the best days." These well-meaning mantras can be dispensed like life jackets — yet to a mother who's treading water in the fog of postpartum, they can feel more like weights.

But what if you're not enjoying yourself every moment? For those times when some moments feel … unbearable? Too many mothers teeter around with mute guilt because they cannot reconcile what they are being told with what they are experiencing. They wonder: Isn't there something more I should be thankful for? What's wrong with me?

But to say the thing that goes without saying as often as possible: Mothering isn't meant to be blissful 24/7. It is full-spectrum. It is holy and messy. Because it's hugs and cracked nipples. First smiles and rage tears. Deep awe and deep exhaustion. And like all other deeply human experiences, it is to be lived, not curated for Instagram.

Love and Struggle Go Together When Love is a Battlefield

The emotional whiplash of early motherhood is one of the more disorienting parts. One minute you are breathing in that intoxicating newborn smell, marvelling at the tiny life you somehow managed to make. Then the next, you're fantasizing about a hotel room — alone, with a locked door, and room service at your beck and call.

Do not interpret this as you're failing. It is a sign you feel it. It's biology and psychology of normal to have your nervous system overwhelmed in the postpartum. Throw hormones, identity confusion and sleep deprivation on top of it, and you have a formula for emotional drama.

And yet such feelings are, more often than not, pathologized rather than celebrated by society. We are supposed to grit and bear it, just relieved to have a baby in our arms. But gratitude doesn't cancel out tiredness. Love doesn't Eliminate the Need for Space. You can love your baby to death and still find yourself wanting to scream into a pillow. Mixed feelings don't make you a bad mother — they make you an honest one.

Real Words From Real Moms

I polled other moms in my community: Had anyone else ever experienced this? What I heard was so touching and at the same time so redemptive. Here's what they shared:

"I was living in someone else's body, and I missed being independent so much, but I felt guilty about even thinking that."

"One night I'm rocking the baby and I'm crying — not because there was something wrong, but because I wanted somebody to rock me."

"I was too afraid to admit I wasn't loving every single second, fearing it meant I wasn't thankful, or worse, that I didn't love my baby."

These stories aren't rare. They're just rarely told. But the more we say them out loud, the more we grant others permission to exhale. There is nothing wrong with wanting more than motherhood at the present moment.

The Identity Earthquake

There is something in the seismic shift in identity that early motherhood represents that causes emotional chaos. Psychologists refer to this transition as matrescence — meaning as big a deal as adolescence, but far less studied.

The experience of matrescence means your body, as well as your brain and your relationships, change. Your priorities rearrange. Who you were before the baby is not all of who you are any longer. And the mourning that sometimes accompanies this transition is real and valid — if hard to express.

Maybe you miss your job, your friends, your independence. Maybe you miss your creativity, or simply the pleasure of being able to finish a thought without someone interrupting. No, so that stuff you miss on, that definitely doesn't mean you are wishing your baby away. It means that you're soaking up a new edition of you — and that's going to take some time, tenderness and patience.

Reframing the Bio Narrative

Next time you get that mantra — "Enjoy every moment!" — I want to offer that you can take a pause, just go on and take a deep breath and ask yourself, what do I need right now? Maybe it's silence. Maybe it's support. Maybe you need five minutes in which no one has to need you.

Let's stop "enjoy it all." And switch it up to "feel what's real." From obligatory gratitude you receive to gratitude you inhabit. We don't need a better parent. We need more permission — to be exhausted, to be complicated, to be beautifully flawed.

Grounded Takeaways

• Anchor in self-awareness. Notice the feelings you're having, without judgment. What you feel is not wrong — it's information.
• Normalize the ambivalence. You are allowed to love your child ferociously and to feel totally overwhelmed, lonely or even resentful at times.
• Reconnect to your breath. Return to yourself when spinning. Ground down through your feet, soften your shoulders, and breathe.
• Seek connection. Say it to another mom who gets it. Vulnerability builds bridges.
• Redefine "good mom." It's not about loving it every second of the way. It's about being, feeling and staying grounded in love — even when it's hard.

Out: I have permission to feel anything. Inhale: Only that one little step that I took. Exhale: This is how I learn.

You don't have to be 100% in love with the moment to be doing a great job. You have to return — with honesty, and grace, and breath. And mama, I see you doing that.