When doing the right thing hurts

I struggled with my son’s bedtime tonight.

It wasn’t anything dramatic—just one of those evenings where nothing seemed to go right. He was overtired, clingy, begging for just one more story, one more hug, one more reason not to go to sleep. And even though I knew what he really needed was sleep, when it came to enforcing that… I still felt awful.

Every time I said, “no, it’s time for sleep,” he cried harder, and louder. Not in danger, not in distress—just in protest. Because I was holding a boundary, and he didn’t like it.

And when I eventually left the room with tears in my own eyes, I wondered (once again) why something that feels so necessary can also feel so painful.

Let’s talk about that kind of hurt.

We don’t talk enough about how maternal instincts and mental health can sometimes feel like they’re at odds.
How protecting your baby can sometimes look like putting them down.
How caring for your child can sometimes mean walking away—for a minute, for a breath, for your own sanity.

We live in a culture that glorifies sacrifice. It tells us that good moms are the ones who always run toward the cry, who never need space, who never flinch, who never doubt.

But the truth is, part of mothering is enduring the discomfort of knowing that our babies will cry, even when we’re doing everything “right.” And part of healing is learning to stay with ourselves in those moments.

What if the cry isn’t a sign that you’re failing—but proof that you’re human?

It’s easy to assume that if something feels painful, it must be wrong. But pain isn’t always a red flag—it’s often just a signal. A signal that something important is happening. A moment of growth. A moment of learning.

We see this in therapy all the time. Healing work can hurt. Setting boundaries can hurt. Saying no to things that drain you—even when people don’t understand—can hurt. And yet those are often the very things that protect your peace and rebuild your sense of self.

So when your baby cries, and you do the thing you’ve decided is best—even when it makes your heart ache—know this:

You are not weak.
You are not broken.
You are not doing it wrong.

You are a mother.
A full, complex human doing impossibly sacred work in real time.

Let this be a reminder that motherhood will ask you to sit with discomfort, not because you're failing, but because you're growing.

And maybe, just maybe, the tenderness you show yourself in those quiet moments—the ones no one sees, when you’re catching your breath outside the nursery door—is one of the most powerful lessons you’ll ever teach your child.

You’re doing brave, beautiful work. And we are with you every step of the way.