Growing up in a house with five sisters, I thought I had a solid understanding of what parenting might look like one day.
Our home was loud, emotional, and deeply connected. I understood tears and tantrums, giggles and gossip. I knew what it meant to comfort, to share space, and to navigate a sea of emotions with grace and empathy.
In many ways, I felt prepared for motherhood, especially when my first child, a daughter, arrived. I slipped into the role with a kind of natural ease. Dressing her, understanding her emotions, encouraging her independence, it all felt familiar.
But when my son was born, everything changed.
This experience was new to me
Suddenly, I was parenting someone whose experience I had never lived. I had no brothers, no real exposure to the everyday world of boys growing up. And as much as I knew that love and care are universal, I couldn’t help but feel unsteady. I was flooded with questions: How do I connect with him? Will I understand what he needs emotionally? How do I raise a kind, gentle boy in a world that too often tells them to be the opposite?
In those early days, I doubted myself. Not because I loved him any less, but because I didn’t feel equipped. He was energetic and physical in ways I hadn’t seen before. He climbed, jumped, wrestled with the couch cushions. He needed space to run, to tumble, to roar like a dinosaur, and I didn’t always know how to respond. I kept asking myself, “Am I doing this right?”
Eventually, my thinking started to shift
What I slowly learned was that I didn’t have to “figure him out.” I had to meet him where he was. I had to let go of my assumptions and listen with curiosity. While my daughter often came to me with words, my son came with action. His love language wasn’t always verbal, it was climbing into my lap without warning, bringing me a toy with pride, or shouting “Mom, watch this!” before a wild leap from the sofa.
It took quiet patience to understand that his emotions looked different. They came out in bursts of energy, sometimes in silence, sometimes in frustration. I had to tune in with a different kind of attention, not to what he was saying, but to what he was doing. And slowly, we built our rhythm. Wrestling turned into giggling. Bedtime stories turned into moments of deep, whispered connection. I realized that my son wasn’t unreachable, I just needed new tools to reach him.
There is no manual for parenting
Raising both a daughter and a son has taught me something powerful: love isn’t one-size-fits-all. It stretches and shifts to meet the child in front of you. It challenges you to grow beyond what you thought you knew. It reminds you that connection doesn’t always come easily, but it’s always worth pursuing.
There’s no perfect manual for parenting. And while my background with sisters gave me one set of instincts, my son opened up an entirely new world. One filled with mess and motion, yes, but also incredible tenderness, curiosity, and joy.
Today, I see each of my children not as puzzles to be solved, but as people to be discovered. And I’m so grateful they’ve each invited me into their world, even when I felt unsure of how to enter it.
If you had asked me before motherhood what kind of parent I’d be, I would’ve said “prepared.” But now, I know the truth, parenting isn’t about being ready, it’s about being willing. Willing to grow, to learn, and to love without limits.
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