motherhood

Three Is Magic

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No one told me three would be this beautiful.

Everyone warned me about three.

They said it with knowing looks and little half laughs.

“Oh just wait until she’s three.”
“Three is when the attitude starts.”
“Threenagers are something else.”

What nobody told me is that three is perfection.

Three is a tiny voice yelling from the other room, “I WILL DO IT MYSELF!” while struggling to pull on shoes that are definitely on the wrong feet.

Three is spinning in the living room saying, “Check out my moves, Momma!” and dancing like the whole world is watching.

Three is independence blooming right in front of my eyes. It’s tiny hands that don’t need mine quite as much anymore, but still reach for me when she’s tired.

Three is Gabby’s Dollhouse on repeat. Again. And again. And again.

Three is dance parties at 10 pm when bedtime should have happened an hour ago.
It’s music playing too loud, twirls across the living room floor, and one more song before we even think about pajamas.

Three is the moment the chaos finally slows down and she crawls into my arms for sleepy cuddles before bed. The kind where her whole little body melts into mine and I remember she’s still my baby, even while she’s becoming her own little person.

Three is hug attacks.
The kind where she runs at me full speed just to wrap her arms around my legs.

Three is messy and loud and exhausting and absolutely magical.

Everyone warned me that three would be hard.

What nobody told me is that three would also break my heart a little.

Because every “I do it myself” is a reminder that she needs me just a tiny bit less than she did yesterday.

And while I’m unbelievably proud of the strong, confident little girl she’s becoming, there’s a quiet part of me that wishes I could freeze time right here.

Right here in the middle of dance parties and hug attacks.
Right here between independence and sleepy cuddles.

Because three is everything being a girl mom was promised it would be.

And I’m trying so hard to soak up every second of it.

Because motherhood is this strange, beautiful thing where your heart grows bigger every day, even while you’re grieving the versions of your child that quietly disappear along the way.

Yesterday she was a baby.

Today she’s three.

And somehow both of those things exist in my arms at the very same time.

And tonight, when I tuck her in and she whispers “I love you, Momma,” I know someday I will look back and realize…

three was never something to survive.

Three was something to treasure.

And I’m treasuring it. Truly.

Go hug your babies and water your plants. Maybe take your vitamin too.

Meig

Hope Is a Powerful Thing

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If you had asked me a year ago how I was doing, I probably would have smiled and said I was fine.

Most moms do.

We’re good at it.
At smiling.
At showing up.
At packing snacks, wiping tears, making dinner, remembering appointments, loving our babies with every ounce of our being… while quietly carrying things inside our own minds that nobody else can see.

The truth is, for a long time I haven’t felt fine.

Not in a dramatic, falling apart kind of way.
In the quieter way that’s harder to explain.

The kind where your brain never really shuts off.
Where you wake up already tired.
Where small things feel overwhelming and your mind feels like it’s constantly running in ten different directions at once.

I kept telling myself I could just push through it. That this is just what motherhood feels like sometimes. That being busy and being overwhelmed are basically part of the job description.

But eventually I had to be honest with myself.

White knuckling your way through life isn’t the same thing as living it.

So I did something that honestly took me a long time to do.

I started seeing a psychiatrist.

Even writing that out feels vulnerable. There’s still this strange stigma around mental health that makes it feel like admitting something is wrong with you. Like if you were just stronger, prayed harder, or more organized or more disciplined, you wouldn’t need help.

But our brains are organs. Just like our hearts and lungs and knees.

And sometimes they need help too.

After talking through everything, we decided to start a treatment plan and see if we can help my brain work the way it’s supposed to. It’s a process, and we’re still figuring out what works best. This isn’t my 1st rodeo with antidepressants or antianxiety medication, but I knew going on that shed throw some scary stuff at me.

Starting this step was scary.

What if nothing changes?
What if I still feel the same way?
What if I’ve been trying so hard for so long and this still doesn’t fix it?

But there’s another thought that keeps showing up, and it’s stronger than the fear.

Hope.

I have hope that things can get better.
Hope that the constant mental noise might quiet down.
Hope that I might wake up feeling rested instead of already behind.
Hope that I might feel like myself again.

Because if I’m being honest, I’m tired of feeling broken.

I’m tired of wondering why my brain sometimes works against me instead of with me. I’m tired of pretending everything is fine when inside it feels like I’m just trying to hold everything together.

I look at my child and I want to be the best version of myself for her. Not a perfect mom, but a present one. One whose mind isn’t constantly fighting itself.

And I know I’m not the only one walking around feeling this way.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve been struggling quietly too, let me say something I wish more people said out loud.

Getting help is not weakness.

It’s one of the bravest things you can do.

Taking care of your mental health doesn’t make you a bad mom, a bad partner, or a failure. It makes you someone who cares enough about your life and your family to fight for yourself.

I don’t know exactly what this journey will look like yet. Healing isn’t instant and it isn’t perfect. There will probably still be hard days.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel something I’ve been missing.

Hope.

And sometimes hope is the very first piece of healing.

Because the truth is this:

Sometimes the bravest thing a mother can do isn’t holding everything together for everyone else.

Sometimes the bravest thing she can do is finally admit she deserves to feel whole too.

Go hug your babies. Go hug your partners. Go hug a tree. Make a therapy appointment.

XOXOXO – Meig

The Small Gate and the Big Adventure

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Motherhood has a way of reminding you that control is mostly an illusion.

This week, our three year old reminded me of that in the most heart stopping way possible.

She went on her first adventure.

Alone.

Somewhere between a normal moment and the next, she slipped out the front gate. I don’t know if it was curiosity, bravery, or simply the unstoppable spirit that lives inside every small child who believes the world is theirs to explore.

One moment she was with me.

The next moment she wasn’t.

If you’ve ever experienced that split second when your brain realizes your child is not where they should be, you know the feeling. It is cold and electric and immediate. Your mind races faster than your feet can move.

I called her name.

Nothing.

I checked the yard.

Nothing.

And then the panic started to rise.

Because motherhood is beautiful, but it is also the constant, quiet understanding that your whole heart exists outside your body, walking around in tiny shoes.

While my mind spun through every terrible possibility, that child of ours was simply… exploring.

Just a few doors down.

Thankfully, she didn’t encounter any danger. She encountered kindness.

Some wonderful neighbors saw a small curly headed adventurer wandering the neighborhood and did what good humans do. They kept her safe and made sure she wasn’t alone while I raced to find her.

By the time I got to her, she was completely calm. Probably wondering why I looked like I had just run a marathon with my heart in my throat.

To her, it had been an adventure.

To me, it had been the longest few minutes of my life.

There is a strange duality in parenting a child like mine. She is fearless. Curious. Independent in a way that both amazes me and terrifies me.

And while my instinct is to protect her from the entire world, another part of me knows that her bold spirit is exactly what will carry her through life.

Still, we will absolutely be reinforcing the gate situation.

Because motherhood is a balance between raising brave children and keeping them alive long enough to grow up.

This week reminded me of two things.

First, that it truly takes a village. I am deeply grateful for the neighbors who saw our little girl and stepped in without hesitation.

Second, that these tiny humans we raise are already becoming their own people. Adventurers. Explorers. Curious little souls who want to see what’s around the corner.

Sometimes that corner is just a few houses down.

And sometimes it gives their mom a mild heart attack.

But it ended the best way it possibly could have.

Our daughter safe in my arms.

My heart slowly returning to my chest.

And a gate that will definitely be getting a better latch.

Love y’all,

Meig

Who is Meighan? She’s just Momma now.

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The Lost Identity of Motherhood—and the Journey to Find Myself Again

I used to wonder what happened to moms after they had children. Where did they go? It was almost symbolic: they seemed to slowly disappear from their own photos, replaced by baby pictures, and for some reason, that used to straight piss me off. I’d find myself wondering: How could someone get so completely lost in motherhood?

Now, I get it. I really do.

There is a loss of identity when you become a mom. At least, that’s been my experience. You become consumed by things you never thought you’d care so much about—milk intake, nap timings, diaper changes, meal plans, teething remedies. The list goes on and on. And somewhere along the way, you forget yourself a bit. You forget how to talk about anything other than the endless cycle of mothering. The things that used to bring you joy—your hobbies, your passions, your interests—fall to the wayside. Slowly, your world becomes smaller, and your conversation more limited. Let’s be honest, it can get a little… dull.

But then, you find other moms. Women who, before motherhood, you might not have connected with. But now, you’re all in the same boat—rattling around in this lost property box together. And in some way, it’s comforting. You’re not alone in this strange, beautiful chaos.

I know deep down that I’ve gone AWOL since becoming a mom. I’ve almost forgotten that there’s a world out there, separate from motherhood, that I can still be a part of.

So, I’m slowly reclaiming my “me-ness” again. It’s a work in progress, but it’s happening. And when I do, I notice something beautiful: Ady enjoys it more, too. It feels more authentic. Now, instead of just playing “Ms. Moni” on repeat, we have little dance parties to the music I love. I’ve even started taking the time to look half-human again in the mornings—putting my old face back on. These small changes, as trivial as they may seem, are helping me reconnect with myself, and I’m pretty sure they’re good for all of us.

Motherhood is a balancing act. You’re helping this tiny human develop their identity, but it’s just as important not to forget your own. It’s okay to be both: a mom and a person, with interests, dreams, and a self that existed long before motherhood.

And every little step I take to reclaim that feels like a victory. Here’s to becoming Meighan again, instead of just Momma.