(you’re not trying to get it perfect, just trying to get it right)

When you were young, you wanted six kids.
It wasn’t a plan. Just a life with adventure, and noise, and fun.
You didn’t think much past that. You didn’t have to.
But life changed. And slowly, so did you.

There came a time when you didn’t want kids at all.
Not because the dream disappeared, but because the weight of it started to feel like too much.

Then came three kids. Not yours, but suddenly part of your everyday life.
And something in you opened.

You started to hope again. To want again.
You tried. And nothing happened.

Month after month. Silence.

Until one day, you stopped feeling sad. And started feeling relieved.
Because deep down, you knew a baby in that moment would’ve made everything harder.

So you let go. Not with resentment. Just with clarity.
And for the first time, you made peace with it. For real.

Years passed. You moved forward.
No baby. No big family.

Just you.

And honestly, you were okay with that.
It wasn’t bitterness.
It wasn’t denial.

It was peace. Earned, quiet, real.

You thought that chapter was closed.
Then everything shifted again.

You fell in love.
And with him came more children.

And the love you had for him just spilled over.
It wrapped around them without hesitation.

There was no moment of decision.
No effort. It just happened.

Because they were his, and your heart made no distinction.

You’re not “mom.” And you don’t need to be.
They already have two parents who love them.
Who show up.
Who hold space for them.

And that’s a gift.

You’re not trying to replace anyone.
You never were.
But that doesn’t make it easier to find your place.

You love them. Deeply. Quietly. All-in.

But you still move carefully.
You hold back sometimes, not because you want to,
but because you respect what already exists.

You show up fully,
while staying mindful not to overstep.

It’s a balance that no one prepares you for.
And there’s no script.

But you walk it with care, with love,
with more intention than most people will ever realize.

Loving them has changed you.
Not in dramatic ways. Not overnight.

But in how you think.
In how you respond.
In what you notice now.

You started to see the patterns.
The echoes.
The parts of your childhood you thought were long buried.

You saw yourself in their reactions.
In their fears.
In their silence.

And you didn’t want to repeat it.

So you started doing the work.
You went inward.
You unpacked things you didn’t plan to touch.
You started therapy.
You asked harder questions.

You didn’t do it to become perfect.
You did it because you wanted to be better.
Safer. Softer.

You learned to hold space for things you were never allowed to feel.
You learned to pause.
To listen without fixing.
To love without controlling.

You learned to mother
without ever giving birth.

You’re still learning.
Still second-guessing.
Still scared you’re getting it wrong.

You replay conversations in your head.
Wonder if you said too much. Or not enough.

You overthink the small things.
You hold your breath after hard days.
You wonder what they’ll remember.

You try not to be the reason they’ll need to heal later.
You carry that fear. Even when no one sees it.

But you haven’t run.

You’ve stayed.
Not because you had to.
Not because anyone asked.

But because that’s who you are.

Showing up quietly.
Holding it together when no one’s watching.
Carrying more than most people will ever know.
And never making it about you.

Because you love them.
And you love their dad.
So deeply.

And they are worth it.
Every part of it.

I’m proud of you for stepping back in,
even after life taught you how much it can hurt to love.

I’m proud of you for doing the inner work,
not for appearances, but so you could love more clearly.

I’m proud of you for showing up,
even when the world doesn’t see you as a mother.

You know better.
And you’ve earned every bit of that knowing.

And I hope you keep trusting your love is enough.
Even when it’s quiet.
Even when it’s complicated.
Even when no one says it out loud.

Because it is.
And you are.