Parenthood Cracked Open: A Letter to Parents and our Little Ones

There are moments in parenthood, and life, when you're hit by a freight train by emotion. Completely overtaken and out of the blue. Not the feelings of chaos or the exhaustion (though those surely come too), but the sheer, overwhelming beauty of it all. It hits like a storm. Sudden. Consuming. Paralyzing. And it stops you in your tracks.

You look at your baby’s tiny toes, their morning grins that stretch from ear to ear, their whole-body excitement that sends them bouncing in joy. The drunken waddle from your trying walker, your silly legged crawl from your scooter. The yell-talking from your four-year-old as they're so excited to tell you something—every bit of it is magic. Real, ordinary,  wild, imperfect magic.

Every now and then I sit down and it's like every emotion I’ve ever had washes over me. Over 30 years of memories and moments crashing in a single moment. Wonder. Gratitude. Sadness. Power. Awe. Love. All of it in one giant wave. Every thought feels louder. Every memory clearer. And everything around me—even the dishes in the sink or the toys on the floor—feels a little more alive.

The human body. How could I ever have doubted its power, its strength, its all knowing how to return to what it needs to? The way it creates, sustains, nurtures. The way it still upholds all that I need even when I didn’t hydrate it enough, or wasn’t able to provide it enough rest. 

Relationships. The evolving dance between growing souls. Growing together with your partner in your ever-changing roles and continuous adventure of life. Learning together with your first born in how to parent as they learn to be a human. Understanding your parents in a way you never did before as you are now trying to do the best you can without a manual as they did with you, hoping it’s enough. 

Babies. The newness. The potential. The softness of their skin, and the strengthening of their bones, their abilities. The surgical way they decipher each object handed to them - “What does it feel like? What sound does it make when I bang it? Can I eat it?” The reminder of what it means to begin.

And then there’s the pursuit of oneself—trying to hold onto who you are while pouring yourself into everyone else. The daily question of what am I doing? Why am I doing this? Is this the right thing? Should I spend more time there? Should I spend more time here? Which thing should I sacrifice/prioritize today - self care, the thing I need to do for work, sleep, playing for a few more minutes with the babies, down time with my partner, cleaning up the house? It’s not all physically possible, so something’s got to give. 

It’s not possible to have it all balanced. It’s in the acceptance of that, that there is peace. Some days there will be more laundry and dishes, sometimes the work report will be a bit late or research a bit less than your best. Some days you may not get to work out or read, some days you may have to pop open the laptop while on the couch with your partner. And that’s ok. But you must accept it - don’t half ass where you are. That leads to a guilt that could make your hair fall out, the bags under your eyes worsen, and anxiety that leaves your stomach in knots for far too long. 

Being a parent makes you look at the world differently. You see more. You feel more. It cracks you open. 

You notice the light in the little things—the way a breeze moves through the trees, the smell of your child's hair after bath time, the way they reach for your hand instinctively. You hear every giggle and every whimper like a symphony only your heart knows how to play.

Suddenly, news stories hit harder. Music moves deeper. Memories from your own childhood rise up in unexpected moments. You carry the weight of protecting innocence while holding space for their freedom to grow.

You realize how fragile and fleeting time is, and how every ordinary day is, in truth, extraordinary. The world becomes sharper and softer all at once—a place full of danger and beauty, struggle and triumph.

Parenthood doesn't just add to your life. It transforms you. It expands your soul.

In a world that often feels loud with fear and cynicism, we have a choice. Be the light. Be the love. Believe in good. But more importantly, be the good. Be the hope. Control what you can and let go of the rest. Don’t waste energy on things that don’t matter. Know that you are enough. You are doing your best. They don’t need things, they need you. They need to know that they are safe, heard, and most importantly loved.

To the parents walking this path too, this is my wish for you:

May you find grace in the undone.

May you feel peace in the quiet, and strength in your softness.

May your shoulders carry only what is yours and drop the rest.

May your heart be light even in heavy seasons.

May you know that your presence matters more than your perfection.

That your tired eyes still see magic, and that they don’t see the bags.

That your weary hands are building worlds with every hug, every meal, every lullaby.

May you be gentle with yourself on the days that feel endless.

May you find laughter and humor when the unwanted, unexpected occurs.

May you sit in the stillness and hear the whisper: you are more than enough. You are not alone.

May you find peace in the truth that your love is louder than your doubts, and that your children don’t need a perfect parent—they just need you.

Wholehearted. Human. Here.

And to our little ones, this is my wish for you:

May your heart always lean toward kindness, even when the world feels hard. May your hands be quick to help and slow to harm.

May your eyes find the stars, even on stormy nights.

May you laugh loudly, cry freely, and feel deeply.

May you taste the sweetness of joy and the salt of your tears, and know both are loved.

May your feet stay on solid ground, and your spirit soar beyond the clouds.

May your dreams be big and your worries small.

May you learn to trust your intuition, to dance in the rain, to always pause for sunsets, and to marvel at the moon.

May you grow brave, not because life is easy, but because you are rooted in love and can do hard things.

Keep your eyes on the sky.

Open your heart.

Listen deeply.

Give freely.

Take only what you need.

And remember no matter what, you can always come home. 

Our arms are always open, our hearts are always listening and beating for you. 

Parenthood is a roller coaster, but right now—in this high, in this awe—I’m choosing to bask in it. Because these are the days that become the stories. The stories that shape their hearts. The hearts that shape the world.

So I will stay present. I will stay open. And I will choose love, again and again.

For them. For me. For our life we are building one giggle and cry at a time.