I am a good mom,

but I get upset when you write on the walls.

I am a good mom,

but when I’m washing dishes

I beg you both to just get along.

I am a good mom,

but sometimes when you reach for me —

just to hug me, just to tell me something small —

I tell you to get off of me

because the walls are caving in

and I can’t breathe

and I just react.

And then comes the guilt.

And then comes the question.

I am a good mom.

I am a good mom.

I wake up every day.

I give you breakfast.

I put clean clothes on your bodies.

I say good morning with a smile on my face

even when my mind is already somewhere else —

in the laundry pile, in the dirty rooms,

in every unfinished thing

that quietly screams my name.

I carry high cortisol in a body

that once didn’t even know what that meant.

I just reacted. I just survived.

And now I know the word

but I still feel the weight.

I don’t have a community.

I don’t have that village

they say it takes.

And that hurts.

But I still show up.

Every single day.

With a smile on my face.

And I see the blessings —

I do.

How I get to be here every day.

How they are safe.

How they are protected.

How no one will hurt them on my watch.

How they are fed and loved and educated,

running free in a big yard

under a sky that is all theirs.

But then that question creeps in —

Is that enough?

Am I enough?

Am I being the best that I can be?

And the answer is yes —

I am everything I know how to be.

So I read the books.

I listen to other mothers.

I try something new for a day

and it works

and then it doesn’t

and then I fall back into the old rhythms,

the automatic responses,

the autopilot,

the numbness that carries me

through the hours.

And I ask again —

Is that enough for them?

I don’t always know.

But I know I wake up tomorrow

and try again.

And I know that they are loved.

And I know that I am good —

I am a good mom…

I am a good mom.