Feb. 16, 2016
I still recall the moment I heard her first cries in the hospital – a sweet, high-pitched sound that felt so different from her brother’s. It caught me off guard, reminding me that this experience would be unlike any other. Then I saw her: a stunning little girl, like a delicate porcelain doll, and I felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. From that day forward, I’ve grappled with an underlying anxiety about being her mother. I’m scared—not just of the challenges ahead but of the immense responsibility I hold for her future.
From the start, I approached her differently than I did my son. While he enjoyed the comfort of co-sleeping for a long time, I was determined to “do better” with my daughter. I would fight to stay awake while rocking her, only for her to be placed back in her crib. We never shared those cozy nights together, breathing in sync. I rationalized this distance by recalling the struggles I faced getting her brother to sleep on his own, but there was more to it.
My relationship with my own mother was fraught with conflict. We disagreed on everything and often clashed, leaving me feeling resentful of her choices and favoritism toward my siblings. I kept her at arm’s length, never confiding in her or seeking her advice. I even chose to go through my deliveries without her presence. I don’t know what it truly means to have a close mother-daughter relationship. Maybe that’s part of my anxiety.
I’ve always been adventurous and a bit reckless. I was the girl who took dares, snuck out at night, and used a fake ID to get into bars. I ran away from home multiple times. Now, I see those same bold traits in my daughter, even at just three years old. She’s fearless, passionate, and stubborn, which makes me worry she might repeat my mistakes. Perhaps this contributes to my fears.
I remember how I broke my father’s heart during my teenage years. We were incredibly close, sharing everything. But when I rebelled and lied to him repeatedly, I betrayed his trust. I can’t imagine the pain that caused him.
When my daughter gets angry, her little tantrums can be overwhelming. In those moments, she can’t articulate her feelings; she can only scream and cry. There were months where bedtime turned into a nightly battle, filled with screams that made us contemplate everything from parenting books to scheduling an exorcism when she stripped off her clothes in frustration. I joke about the teenage years ahead, but there’s genuine fear behind my laughter.
She watches me closely, imitating how I apply lip gloss and asking to wear matching outfits. The pressure is immense. She’s modeling her behavior after me, and I can’t afford to mess this up.
Sometimes, I wonder if it’s too late to build a strong bond with her. The last three years have flown by, and I yearn for the deep connection that exists between mothers and daughters—the one I never had with my own mom. I dream about simple moments, like discussing a first crush, and wonder if she’ll want me by her side when she gives birth to her own children.
My fears stem from deep insecurity, a belief that I may not know how to be a good mother, leaving me feeling doomed to fail. I worry that any closeness we create will be fleeting, and eventually, she might break my heart too.
But I realize that retreating won’t help us build a relationship. Time is slipping away, and there’s too much at stake. I need to leap into this journey of motherhood, embracing it fully. The only way to counter my fears is to love her fiercely, hoping for the best. She needs me—her only mother.
For those navigating similar journeys, you might find helpful resources about pregnancy and home insemination at Make a Mom and check out Parents for insights on what to expect during your first IUI. You can also explore our post on Intracervical Insemination for more information.
In summary, my journey as a mother to my daughter is filled with fears and uncertainties. Yet, I know that embracing love and connection is the key to overcoming my anxieties.