Social Media “I Regret Becoming a Mother and Can’t Say It Out Loud”
Social Media “I Regret Becoming a Mother and Can’t Say It Out Loud”
Dec 15 2024, 11:59 PM
Zealousideal_Ask_739 I never thought I would write these words, let alone admit them to myself. I’m a 37-year-old woman, a mother of two, and I regret ever becoming a mother. It’s not a fleeting thought born out of sleepless nights or the exhaustion of tantrums. It’s a cold, sharp realization that I’ve carried with me for years. I know how society views women like me—as ungrateful, selfish, or even monstrous. But I need to say this out loud because no one ever talks about the other side of motherhood—the dark, suffocating side that some of us can’t escape.
When I was younger, I didn’t even want children. I remember telling my college boyfriend at the time that I didn’t see myself as the “mom type.” I was ambitious, full of dreams, and convinced that motherhood was a trap. I wanted to travel, work in journalism, and live in a tiny apartment in Paris with a bookshelf that reached the ceiling. The idea of giving up that freedom for sleepless nights and sticky hands never appealed to me. But life, as they say, had other plans.
I met my husband, James, when I was 27. He was sweet, stable, and everything I didn’t know I needed at the time. We got married two years later, and almost immediately, the questions started: “When are you having kids?” I brushed them off at first, laughing about how we weren’t ready yet. But James wanted kids. Badly. He came from a big, loving family and couldn’t imagine life without children. He never pressured me, exactly, but the longing in his voice whenever he talked about having a son or daughter was impossible to ignore.
So I told myself it would be fine. Maybe I was wrong about not wanting kids. Maybe I just hadn’t met the right person to share that journey with. Everyone told me that motherhood changes you, that it’s the most profound love you’ll ever experience. I wanted to believe them.
Our first child, Lily, was born when I was 30. The moment they placed her on my chest, I waited for that rush of love everyone talks about. Instead, I felt panic. She was so small, so fragile, and I was terrified. I told myself it was just the hormones, the exhaustion, and that the feelings would come in time.
They didn’t.
I went through the motions like any good mother would. I nursed her, rocked her to sleep, and sang lullabies at 3 a.m. But inside, I felt hollow. I wasn’t resentful of Lily herself—she was just a baby, after all—but I was resentful of the life I had lost. I missed my freedom, my career, and the version of myself that had existed before motherhood. Every time I scrolled through social media and saw old friends traveling or thriving in their careers, it felt like a punch to the gut.
When I confessed these feelings to James, he tried to understand, but I could see the hurt in his eyes. “It’ll get better,” he said. “You’re just overwhelmed.” And I wanted to believe him.
Three years later, we had our second child, Noah. By then, I had hoped that my maternal instincts would have kicked in. They hadn’t. If anything, Noah’s arrival only deepened my despair. With two kids, I felt like I had completely disappeared. My days were consumed by diaper changes, preschool drop-offs, and the endless monotony of parenting.
I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I just ask for help? The truth is, I did. I hired babysitters, went to therapy, and even took short solo trips to try to reconnect with myself. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the weight of motherhood. It was as if my identity had been swallowed whole, leaving behind a shadow of the person I used to be.
What makes it worse is that I do love my children. I love the way Lily’s eyes light up when she’s excited about something, and the way Noah curls up in my lap with his favorite book. They are innocent, beautiful souls, and they don’t deserve a mother who feels this way. But that’s the cruel irony—I can love them and still regret the life I gave up for them.
I’ve spent years silently battling this guilt, afraid to speak the words out loud for fear of judgment. Society idealizes motherhood to such an extent that admitting you don’t enjoy it feels like a betrayal. Mothers are supposed to be selfless, endlessly patient, and fulfilled by their role. If you don’t fit that mold, you’re seen as broken or ungrateful.
I’ve lost friends over this. When I finally opened up to a close friend about how I felt, she looked at me like I was a stranger. “But you’re such a good mom,” she said, as if that erased everything I had just told her. Others weren’t as kind. One even accused me of emotionally damaging my children by harboring these feelings.
It’s hard to describe the isolation of feeling this way. Every parenting blog, every Instagram post, every well-meaning comment from strangers reinforces the idea that motherhood is the ultimate joy. There’s no room for nuance, no space to admit that it’s not the right path for everyone.
If I could go back in time, I don’t know if I would make the same choices. I love my children, but I often wonder if they would have been better off with a mother who wanted this life. Someone who could embrace the chaos and find joy in the little moments.
I know some people will read this and think I’m a monster. They’ll say I should have never had kids if I wasn’t sure, or that I’m selfish for putting my feelings above my children’s needs. And maybe they’re right. But I also know there are other women out there who feel the same way, trapped by societal expectations and afraid to speak their truth.
To those women, I want to say this: You’re not alone. You’re not broken, and you’re not a bad person for feeling this way. Motherhood isn’t one-size-fits-all, and it’s okay to admit that it’s not the life you imagined for yourself.
As for me, I’m still figuring it out. I don’t have a neat, happy ending to this story. I’m doing the best I can for my kids, trying to show up for them even on the days when I feel like I’m drowning. Maybe one day, I’ll make peace with my choices. Or maybe I won’t. But for now, I’m choosing to be honest—with myself and with the world.
Kozlik's regular member account. 🍀🐐
r/confession: https://reddit.com/r/confession/comments/1hfalyk/i_regret_becoming_a_mother_and_cant_say_it_out/
Zealousideal_Ask_739 I never thought I would write these words, let alone admit them to myself. I’m a 37-year-old woman, a mother of two, and I regret ever becoming a mother. It’s not a fleeting thought born out of sleepless nights or the exhaustion of tantrums. It’s a cold, sharp realization that I’ve carried with me for years. I know how society views women like me—as ungrateful, selfish, or even monstrous. But I need to say this out loud because no one ever talks about the other side of motherhood—the dark, suffocating side that some of us can’t escape.
When I was younger, I didn’t even want children. I remember telling my college boyfriend at the time that I didn’t see myself as the “mom type.” I was ambitious, full of dreams, and convinced that motherhood was a trap. I wanted to travel, work in journalism, and live in a tiny apartment in Paris with a bookshelf that reached the ceiling. The idea of giving up that freedom for sleepless nights and sticky hands never appealed to me. But life, as they say, had other plans.
I met my husband, James, when I was 27. He was sweet, stable, and everything I didn’t know I needed at the time. We got married two years later, and almost immediately, the questions started: “When are you having kids?” I brushed them off at first, laughing about how we weren’t ready yet. But James wanted kids. Badly. He came from a big, loving family and couldn’t imagine life without children. He never pressured me, exactly, but the longing in his voice whenever he talked about having a son or daughter was impossible to ignore.
So I told myself it would be fine. Maybe I was wrong about not wanting kids. Maybe I just hadn’t met the right person to share that journey with. Everyone told me that motherhood changes you, that it’s the most profound love you’ll ever experience. I wanted to believe them.
Our first child, Lily, was born when I was 30. The moment they placed her on my chest, I waited for that rush of love everyone talks about. Instead, I felt panic. She was so small, so fragile, and I was terrified. I told myself it was just the hormones, the exhaustion, and that the feelings would come in time.
They didn’t.
I went through the motions like any good mother would. I nursed her, rocked her to sleep, and sang lullabies at 3 a.m. But inside, I felt hollow. I wasn’t resentful of Lily herself—she was just a baby, after all—but I was resentful of the life I had lost. I missed my freedom, my career, and the version of myself that had existed before motherhood. Every time I scrolled through social media and saw old friends traveling or thriving in their careers, it felt like a punch to the gut.
When I confessed these feelings to James, he tried to understand, but I could see the hurt in his eyes. “It’ll get better,” he said. “You’re just overwhelmed.” And I wanted to believe him.
Three years later, we had our second child, Noah. By then, I had hoped that my maternal instincts would have kicked in. They hadn’t. If anything, Noah’s arrival only deepened my despair. With two kids, I felt like I had completely disappeared. My days were consumed by diaper changes, preschool drop-offs, and the endless monotony of parenting.
I know what you’re thinking: Why didn’t I just ask for help? The truth is, I did. I hired babysitters, went to therapy, and even took short solo trips to try to reconnect with myself. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the weight of motherhood. It was as if my identity had been swallowed whole, leaving behind a shadow of the person I used to be.
What makes it worse is that I do love my children. I love the way Lily’s eyes light up when she’s excited about something, and the way Noah curls up in my lap with his favorite book. They are innocent, beautiful souls, and they don’t deserve a mother who feels this way. But that’s the cruel irony—I can love them and still regret the life I gave up for them.
I’ve spent years silently battling this guilt, afraid to speak the words out loud for fear of judgment. Society idealizes motherhood to such an extent that admitting you don’t enjoy it feels like a betrayal. Mothers are supposed to be selfless, endlessly patient, and fulfilled by their role. If you don’t fit that mold, you’re seen as broken or ungrateful.
I’ve lost friends over this. When I finally opened up to a close friend about how I felt, she looked at me like I was a stranger. “But you’re such a good mom,” she said, as if that erased everything I had just told her. Others weren’t as kind. One even accused me of emotionally damaging my children by harboring these feelings.
It’s hard to describe the isolation of feeling this way. Every parenting blog, every Instagram post, every well-meaning comment from strangers reinforces the idea that motherhood is the ultimate joy. There’s no room for nuance, no space to admit that it’s not the right path for everyone.
If I could go back in time, I don’t know if I would make the same choices. I love my children, but I often wonder if they would have been better off with a mother who wanted this life. Someone who could embrace the chaos and find joy in the little moments.
I know some people will read this and think I’m a monster. They’ll say I should have never had kids if I wasn’t sure, or that I’m selfish for putting my feelings above my children’s needs. And maybe they’re right. But I also know there are other women out there who feel the same way, trapped by societal expectations and afraid to speak their truth.
To those women, I want to say this: You’re not alone. You’re not broken, and you’re not a bad person for feeling this way. Motherhood isn’t one-size-fits-all, and it’s okay to admit that it’s not the life you imagined for yourself.
As for me, I’m still figuring it out. I don’t have a neat, happy ending to this story. I’m doing the best I can for my kids, trying to show up for them even on the days when I feel like I’m drowning. Maybe one day, I’ll make peace with my choices. Or maybe I won’t. But for now, I’m choosing to be honest—with myself and with the world.
Kozlik's regular member account. 🍀🐐
komorebi
“I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.” – Audre Lorde
“I am not free while any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are very different from my own.” – Audre Lorde
124
Dec 17 2024, 1:15 AM
Very sad. :( I get that she probably shouldn't say this all in front of her kids, at least until they're grown, but while unsurprising, it's still fucking depressing that she has no outlet for her feelings. Not with her friends, even. 🤷 If it's considered normal for women to regret not having kids, seems reasonable that women should be able to regret having them too.
Dec 17 2024, 10:13 AM
Maybe if there was more support and acceptance for the regretful side of parenting, instead of trying to shame people out of it, it wouldn't feel so difficult and so much like being trapped in a job you hate. And maybe fewer kids would grow up knowing their parents didn't really like parenting them most of the time.
I've thought for years now, decades maybe, that most parents regret having kids more than they don't regret it. It's just most of them see it as a "suck it up and deal" type of situation. Like how most people don't enjoy needing a job or having to go to work, but we do it anyway.
Maybe if there was more support and acceptance for the regretful side of parenting, instead of trying to shame people out of it, it wouldn't feel so difficult and so much like being trapped in a job you hate. And maybe fewer kids would grow up knowing their parents didn't really like parenting them most of the time.
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