The Things no one tells you about motherhood

When I asked thousands of mothers on my instagram what they wish people talked about in motherhood, I expected a range of answers. Maybe a few about sleep, feeding, or the daily balance of it all. What came back was something else entirely thousands of messages, full of emotion and truth. They weren’t about milestone charts or swaddling techniques. They were about the quiet, complicated, invisible parts of motherhood that no one prepares you for. The parts that sit heavy in your chest at 3 a.m. when the house is silent and you’re wondering if anyone else feels this way.

That question — “what do you wish people talked about?” — revealed what I already suspected: that so many women begin their journey into motherhood surrounded by people, yet feel entirely unseen. We’ve built a culture that celebrates babies, but forgets the mothers who birth them. We focus on swaddles, bottles, and bassinets, but overlook the emotional terrain of the woman who has just become a mother.

These were the most common answers, and the stories behind them.

“How lonely it feels—even when you’re never technically alone”

This was the most common response. Loneliness in motherhood is unlike any other kind of loneliness. You are never physically alone. Someone is always touching you, needing you, watching you. Your body is no longer your own. Your time is rarely your own. You cannot even go to the bathroom without a small voice calling your name. And yet, despite the constant presence of others, you can feel deeply isolated.

People see the baby. They ask about the baby. They hold the baby. But they rarely look at you. The woman you were before—the one with interests, ideas, and conversations that had nothing to do with nap schedules—starts to fade into the background. There is space for you as “the mom,” but not for the full version of you that existed before.

Part of this loneliness comes from the fact that no one will ever experience the exact emotions you have in a given moment with your child. That unique, personal bond can make you feel deeply connected and completely alone at the same time.

“I thought breastfeeding would be natural. Instead it was pain, frustration, and feeling like I was failing”

This was the NUMBER ONE topic!! Why?? I think because we are told, our entire lives, that “Breast is best” and we just assume we will breastfeed.

That is until reality hits.

Latching issues. Cracked nipples. Mastitis. Supply anxiety. D-MER (look it up—it’s a mindfuck). The physical pain no one prepares you for. The exhaustion (and hunger!!). And then the emotional weight when it doesn’t work the way you imagined it would.

What makes it harder is the idea that your body is supposed to know how to do this. When it does not, it feels like failure. But it is not. Feeding your baby is not a moral issue; it is an act of care, no matter how you do it. Your mental health matters more than the method. If switching to formula or stopping earlier than you planned helps you feel like yourself again, that choice supports both you and your baby. A fed baby and a supported mother are what truly matter.

“For a while, admitting I needed time for me felt like saying I didn’t love my baby”

Here’s what nobody tells you: you can desperately need a break and still love your kid more than anything.

Here’s the other hard truth: you will be a better version of you as a mom, if you take care of your needs.

Our culture has this idea that good moms are self-sacrificing to the point of disappearing. That if you need time alone, something’s wrong with you. That you *must* show up fully as a mom and only after that can you take care of y ou.

But that’s bullshit.

You’re a person. A human. Who needs rest, who needs quiet, who needs time to recharge.

When you take care of yourself, you show up better. Not as the burnt-out version running on fumes. As the one who actually has something left to give.

“I love who I am now. But I also miss who I was before kids”

This response stopped me.

“I don’t want her back—I just wish I could say goodbye to her one more time.”

Sucker punch right in the gut.

Motherhood transforms you in ways you cannot predict. Your priorities shift. Your identity stretches. Your sense of time and control dissolves and reforms around someone else’s needs. You can be grateful for the version of yourself that exists now and still miss the person you were. The spontaneous one. The rested one. The one who felt entirely her own. Missing her does not mean you regret becoming a mother. It means you recognize the depth of what you have given and the ways you have grown.

I feel that too. I have become more grounded, more patient, more certain of what matters to me. But there are moments when I still think of who I was before and feel a quiet pang. The reality that with growth comes loss, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing to be growing.

“The constant guilt. For everything.”

Working. Staying home. Needing space. Wanting to be with them. Also needing a break.The guilt literally never stops.

The best thing I learned was that guilt is not actually a sign that you’re doing something wrong. It’s a sign that you are honoring your values. That you care. About your kid. About yourself. About getting it right.

The guilt comes because you’re making choices, and choices mean trade-offs. There’s no version of this where everything feels perfectly aligned. You’re always going to be pulled in multiple directions. A ball is going to drop. Guilt will be there no matter what side of the equation we look at.

Instead, it comes down to questioning “what value am I choosing today” or “what need do I need to meet in order to be the parent I want to be”. Some days that means leaving for a few hours to do a yoga class. Other days it means cancelling plans to be with your kids.

“People came over to hold the baby. But I was the one who needed to be held”

Everyone wants to see the baby. Hold the baby. Take photos with the baby. But who’s asking about you? Who’s taking care of mom?

Not in the “how’s the baby sleeping?” way. In the “how are you doing?” way. The “do you need anything?” way. The “I see you and this looks hard” way. In the “go take a walk and don’t worry about when you come back” way.

Mom’s don’t need advice. They need to be held. That means to be seen, feel heard, be taken care of. Fed. Chores helped with. A moment to get her nails done or get outside.

Why this matters to me

I’m here for the nuance of motherhood. The “it’s okay for it to be hard” and the “you can love your baby and not love every moment of motherhood”.

Motherhood is a constant mix of emotions. From one tantrum to the snuggles after, you can be grateful and exhausted. You can love your kids and miss your old life. You can be surrounded by people and feel completely alone. These aren’t contradictions. They’re just real emotions felt by a real human. Who honestly hasn’t been in this mixed place before.

What I found most moving about these answers was that with thousands of responses, there was a commonality. Which to me, means that whatever you are feeling, you are not alone. Other moms are feeling it too.

-Kim