The Mother my first born made me
By Lucie Santiago
I became a mother at 21 years old.
At the time, I thought I was ready. I had so much love to give, so many dreams for the little boy I was about to bring into the world. Looking back now at 33, I realize that while I loved him fiercely, I was still growing up myself.
This year, I’ve found myself reflecting on motherhood more than ever. Maybe it’s because my oldest is now 12 years old. Maybe it’s because I can see the young man he’s becoming. Or maybe it’s because I’ve finally reached a place in life where I can look back with both honesty and grace.
If I could sit down with my 21-year-old self, there is so much I would tell her.
I would tell her that everything is going to be okay.
I would tell her to stop worrying so much about the things that won’t matter a decade later.
I would tell her that the dishes can wait, the laundry can wait, and the house doesn’t need to be perfect.
Most importantly, I would tell her to slow down and soak it all in.
Because those days that felt long were actually so short.
I spent so much of my son’s early years worried. Worried about money. Worried about being a good mom. Worried about whether I was doing enough. Worried about things I couldn’t control.
I wanted so badly to give him the best life possible, but sometimes my fear of failing became louder than my ability to enjoy the moment I was in.
I wish I had spent less time stressing and more time simply being present.
I wish I had taken more pictures of the ordinary days.
I wish I had sat on the floor and played a little longer.
I wish I had trusted myself more.
The truth is, becoming a mother changed me forever. My son gave my life purpose in a way I had never experienced before. He made me want to work harder. He made me want to be better. He gave me a reason to keep going on the days when I wanted to quit.
In many ways, he helped shape the woman I am today.
But if I’m being honest, there are moments when guilt creeps in.
Since becoming a mom, I’ve had two more children. They have a different version of me than my firstborn had.
They have a mom who is more patient.
A mom who is more confident.
A mom who has learned that not everything needs to be perfect.
A mom who worries less and enjoys more.
A mom who has more stability than she did at 21.
Sometimes I watch my younger children experience this version of me and I wonder what it would have been like if my oldest had gotten her too.
Would I have laughed more?
Would I have stressed less?
Would I have enjoyed his childhood differently?
Motherhood has a way of making us look back and question ourselves. We replay decisions. We revisit mistakes. We wonder if we could have done better.
But the older I get, the more I realize something important.
My firstborn didn’t get a perfect mom.
He got a growing mom.
He got a mom who was learning right alongside him.
He got a mom who made mistakes but loved him with everything she had.
He got a mom who didn’t always know what she was doing but showed up anyway.
And maybe that’s enough.
Actually, maybe that’s more than enough.
Because while I was busy worrying about whether I was failing him, he was teaching me how to become who I was meant to be.
He was there through every lesson.
Every struggle.
Every late-night tear.
Every victory.
Every moment that slowly transformed me into the woman and mother I am today.
The reality is that our children don’t need perfection from us.
They need presence.
They need love.
They need to know we’re trying.
And if there’s one thing I’ve always done, it’s try.
As mothers, we often carry guilt for the versions of ourselves we no longer are. We compare who we were then to who we are now and forget that growth is the entire point.
The woman I am today exists because of the woman I was at 21.
The mother I am today exists because my firstborn made her possible.
So instead of feeling guilty, I’m learning to feel grateful.
Grateful for the young mom who did her best with what she knew.
Grateful for the little boy who taught her so much.
Grateful for the journey that brought us here.
My son is 12 now. The years have passed faster than I ever imagined they would. And while I can’t go back and relive those early days, I can choose how I move forward.
I can be present now.
I can cherish the moments now.
I can tell my children how much they are loved now.
And if I could leave my younger self with one final piece of advice, it would be this:
Stop worrying so much about getting motherhood right.
One day you’ll realize that the love was always the most important part.
And you’ve had plenty of that from the very beginning.
