Real>Perfect

There’s this unspoken expectation. Especially for women. Especially for caretakers. You’re supposed to make it all look easy. Smile. Keep the kids in matching outfits. Stay soft-spoken and Pinterest-level put together. Be gentle. Be endlessly patient. Be inspiring. Be palatable.

Fuck that.

I’m not here to be perfect. I’m here to be present. To show up tired, real, and fully in it for the people I love. That includes the messy mornings, the overstimulated afternoons, and the days where I swear the only thing holding the house together is pure spite and duct tape.

I don’t live there. I go home every night. But every morning, I come back on purpose. I’m not their mom, but during the day, I’m theirs. And that’s enough for me to take it seriously.

Because they don’t need my polished version. They need me to actually show up for the snack debates, the sibling squabbles, the jellyfish tunnel drives, and all the loud, ridiculous stuff they’ll remember forever.

And I get to do it all again tomorrow.