If you had asked me growing up whether I ever imagined myself as a stay-at-home mom, I would have laughed—probably out loud. My parents instilled in me a belief in the American dream: graduate high school, go to college, start a career, work hard until retirement. The plan seemed simple, even secure, if you didn’t account for life throwing curveballs—like marrying your high school sweetheart with career dreams that required moving across the country, and deciding to start a family.
The day I walked across the stage with my Bachelor of Science in Criminal Justice, I stepped straight into my dream job: Deputy at the local sheriff’s office. I completed a 13-week Law Enforcement academy, got tased, OC sprayed, and yes, I earned the shirt. My sheltered-suburb mind was quickly awakened to the harsh realities of inner-city crime and poverty. On patrol, I felt purpose in leaving my community a little better with each shift. I loved the adrenaline, the thrill, and the feeling of being brave. I truly felt invincible—like nothing could touch me as I walked out the door in uniform, not thinking twice about what could happen.
Until we decided to start a family.
When I found out I was pregnant, everything changed instantly. My priorities shifted overnight. I was now responsible for a tiny human life, charged with protecting my body so that baby could grow safely. A few weeks later, we lost the baby. The grief hit me like a storm—I was angry, isolated, and overwhelmed. It felt as though no one could truly understand this kind of loss, as society often shuns vulnerability. Then came the guilt and self-blame: Was it stress from my job? Had my body failed? Would I ever have children? These questions gnawed at me and made me reconsider everything, including my career and dreams.
Several months later, we were blessed with our rainbow baby, Calahan. I never considered myself a “motherly” person—I hadn’t even changed a diaper before the nurse guided me. But the moment they placed her on my chest, everything changed. Every plan I had, every past love I knew, pivoted completely the second I looked at her. Through sleepless nights and the blur of postpartum hormones, covered in the scent of spit-up, I would sit staring at her. Between ugly cries, I whispered to her that even if I lived to be 100, it wouldn’t be enough. Eternity itself wouldn’t suffice.
Returning to patrol just three weeks after maternity leave, I realized something crucial: shift work in a dangerous line of duty was no longer my priority. All my training—college degrees, student loans, academy months, field training, continuing education—suddenly meant nothing compared to the thought of missing her milestones. Walking out the door each morning made me physically ill at the idea that it could be the last time I saw her. It wasn’t fair. She needed me. I needed to be the one to witness her first words, her first steps—not a daycare worker. That realization led to one of the hardest decisions of my life: resigning as a Deputy.
Leaving the law enforcement community was heart-wrenching. The bonds formed between officers in life-or-death situations are unlike any other—they’re addictive. Walking away felt like abandoning a family, erasing nine years of dedication and purpose. I wrestled with feelings of loss and doubt, until a close friend reminded me, “Everything you accomplished—the lives you touched, the difference you made—no one can take that away.” Those words didn’t erase my grief, but they reminded me that my contributions mattered.
The idea of being a stay-at-home mom initially felt lonely. I’m an Enneagram 2, extroverted and goal-driven, thriving on achievement. Yet I sensed God opening a new chapter. Not long after, we welcomed our son, Nash. I vowed never to let someone else raise my children or experience the heartbreak of the first daycare drop-off. I wanted to soak in every moment, to witness every milestone, and to treasure these fleeting years.
Clueless about the day-to-day of at-home parenting, I dove into Pinterest boards, library memberships, swimming classes, and sought advice on how to fill our days. The first few weeks felt like an endless vacation: extra snuggles, spontaneous trips to TJ Maxx, park playdates, and constant reminders of how lucky I was. But reality soon set in. Motherhood wasn’t just a vacation—it was life-altering, identity-shifting work.
The once career-driven, goal-oriented woman I was became someone surviving each day. Conversations were limited to toddler requests and household tasks that never felt recognized. Each day, I felt like I was working without tangible results. Society often imagines stay-at-home moms lounging in pajamas, sipping coffee, and watching cartoons. If I had a nickel for every time someone asked, “Do you JUST stay home with the kids?” I could fund my children’s college. Over three years, I’ve learned there’s no such thing as “just” staying home. It demands 100% of your attention, constant care, managing meltdowns, preparing meals, and somehow finding time to shower after bedtime routines are over.
Motherhood has shaped me in profound ways. It has brought out my best qualities: organization, prioritizing routines, and teaching my children gratitude and kindness while navigating the real world. But it has also revealed my worst traits: impatience, frustration, selfish moments, and giving in when I need a break.
Thankfully, my children forgive quickly and love unconditionally, teaching me grace in return.
Mama, I see you. I see the moments you crave a break, the tears you hide, the hats you wear, the identity you feel slipping. I see the longing for a quiet bubble bath and a glass of wine.
I am you. And through this platform, I aim to normalize the raw and real of motherhood. No curated highlight reel, just truth. I want to stand beside you and say, “Mama, me too. You’re not alone.” I also strive to remind mothers to care for themselves—mentally, physically, and spiritually—so they can pour into their children from a place of strength. Finding a community of like-minded women has allowed me to continue my sense of purpose, goal-setting, and achievement even while raising my babies at home.
Motherhood is exhausting yet extraordinary, filled with trial and error, stolen Halloween candy, and endless milestones. Someday, we will miss these sleepless nights, long days, and tiny arms that fit in ours. We will wish to relive the moments we now long for to pass.
We are all doing our best. No one gives us an owner’s manual at the hospital. But together, navigating this messy, beautiful journey, we can say—we’re in this together.
