The day my son was born, my life changed forever. I carried him for nine months, not realizing just how much he would steal my heart, reshape my world, and wrap me around his little fingers. But from the very beginning, motherhood also introduced me to something I never expected—guilt.

When my son was just a few days old, I struggled with feeding. He wouldn’t latch, my body wouldn’t produce enough milk, and no matter how many times I tried—or how many specialists I saw—I couldn’t make it work. I wasn’t just afraid he wasn’t getting enough to eat. I was terrified I’d never have that magical “connection” other moms seemed to talk about. When it didn’t happen, guilt consumed me.

Then came postpartum depression. At first, I didn’t even realize I was suffering. I just knew I was exhausted. My son only slept if I held him, and months of sleepless nights left me feeling numb and detached. I remember handing him to my mom one night and walking away, completely blank. That moment scared me—I could hear his cries but felt nothing. When I was diagnosed with PPD, I thought relief would come, but instead guilt crashed in. How could I not feel anything for my baby? What kind of mother was I?

As the months went on, the guilt just kept showing up in new ways. Going back to work made me feel guilty for leaving him. Staying home made me feel guilty for not providing. When he was hospitalized twice, I felt guilty for not being by his side every second. Motherhood started to feel like a constant cycle of damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

And then came the hardest decision of all. When he was four months old, I placed him with another family because I knew I couldn’t take care of him in my addiction. That choice ripped me apart. The guilt was unbearable—but it was also the choice that saved both of us. Today, I’m grateful to say we’ve rebuilt a bond I once feared was gone forever.

Even the smaller decisions carried guilt. When I sleep-trained him at 18 months, it was a nightmare. He cried, I cried, and I questioned if I was breaking his trust. But I also knew we both needed rest, and giving in wouldn’t help either of us. That’s motherhood—you’re constantly weighing two hard choices, hoping one of them will be “right.”

And the guilt hasn’t stopped as he’s grown. At two, it was missing milestones while I worked. At four, it was not giving him the same experiences other kids had. At six and seven, it became wondering if my struggles—mental health, recovery, single parenting—were too heavy for a child to carry. I’ve questioned myself at every stage: Am I enough? Am I showing up the way he needs? Am I giving him the life he deserves?

Here’s what I’ve learned: guilt is part of parenting. Every mom I’ve ever talked to feels it, though it shows up in different ways. For me, mental illness has amplified it, making even small choices feel like life-or-death decisions. But the truth is, we’ll never get it all right. And that’s okay.

What matters most is love. My love for my son is fierce, unwavering, and greater than any guilt I’ve ever carried. That love is what keeps me moving forward, making mistakes, learning, and trying again.

If you’re a mom carrying guilt, please hear this—you’re not alone. We all question ourselves. We all wonder if we’re doing it right. The very fact that you’re worried about being a good parent is proof that you already are one.

Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s also the most rewarding. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. My son is my reason for everything.