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I Hate That Motherhood Is This Hard

motherhoodhard
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I hate that I can love something so much, but also hate it a little bit at the same time.

I hate that parenting is not the same for you as it is for me.

I hate that I even compare.

I hate that I can’t take my mind off what I have lost, when I should be focusing on what I have gained.

I hate that I hate you for things out of your control.

I hate that even though this is the life we both chose, mine has changed the most drastically.

I hate that no matter where I go, no matter what I do, no matter how much I try, I can never escape.

I hate that I worry about everything now, that I can never un-see the horrible things that could happen, that my mind always goes right to the worst-case scenario.

I hate that you don’t see it the same way I do.

I hate that it’s always so, so hard.

I hate that I’m failing.

I hate that sometimes, just for the briefest of seconds, I wonder what my life could have been.

I hate that I don’t really know how I got here.

I hate that 13 years have passed so quickly.

I hate that how I see the world has changed so drastically, that I see the world as one everlasting danger to my children, that I see people as those who could hurt them.

I hate that I think so much about my body.

I hate that I am failing to give my daughters a good body image.

I hate that I push you away, too embarrassed by the rolls around my stomach.

I hate that I still think about food pretty much all day, every day.

I hate that no matter what I do, I will fall short somehow.

I hate that I long for alone time, but feel lonely when I get it.

I hate that I hide from the children, but want nothing more than to have them with me forever.

I hate that there are no guarantees.

I hate that we work so hard to have them leave us.

I hate that sometimes I am terrified that I don’t know the people they are becoming.

I hate that I’m afraid to know the people they are becoming.

I hate that I’m afraid to know who I have become.

I hate that I don’t know how to just sit for more than 4 minutes without thinking of my phone.

I hate that it’s the first thing I do in the morning and the last thing I do at night.

I hate that I compare myself to every other mother I see, even those I will never meet.

I hate that I care, even if I know better.

I hate that everyone else has a dreamy, farmhouse-inspired kitchen touched by the hand of Joanna Gaines herself.

I hate that I can’t learn to be content.

I hate that I despise getting dressed.

I hate that I still don’t know my own bra size.

I hate that they might feel this way someday, too.

I hate that I don’t feel good enough to be their mother.

I hate that cancer exists.

I hate that some mothers have had to say goodbye.

I hate that every day, I can feel defeated before I’ve even started.

I hate that I feel this way, when I have so much.

I hate that I forget, even for a minute, how lucky I am to have them all here with me.

And finally — because I just can’t resist — I hate that I can’t hate it, not even a little bit, not even at all.

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Article Posted 3 years Ago
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