Mom Guilt
pull up a chair
“Mom guilt isn’t proof that I’m failing. It’s proof that I love deeply and overthink regularly.” (Esther Joy Goetz)
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Let’s chat about mom guilt.
Not the dramatic, headline kind.
The quiet, daily, “oh for heaven’s sake, here we go again” kind.
If you’re anything like me, it’s less of a passing emotion and more of a roommate. It doesn’t pay rent. It eats my snacks. It comments on everything.
Some days it sits right in the center of my chest and says,
“You handled that wrong.”
Other days it leans against the kitchen counter and says,
“You didn’t handle that at all.”
I am one version of myself on Monday and a completely different one by Wednesday.
One moment I’m too much.
I raise my voice.
I push too hard.
I insert myself into something that did not require my insertion.
And afterward, I lie in bed replaying it like game film.
Did I overdo it?
Was that the moment I permanently damaged them?
Will they tell their therapist about this in 12 years?
And then — almost impressively — I swing the other way.
Now I’m not enough.
I should have said more.
I should have stepped in.
I should have noticed sooner.
I should have asked one more question instead of saying, “Oh wow, that’s crazy.”
It is a tightrope act between too much and not enough, and apparently I insist on walking it in uncomfortable shoes.
Because here’s the thing.
I am the mom hovers over texts.
Then I stare at my phone willing it not to buzz, wondering if I’ve inserted myself one too many times.
I try to fix everything.
Then I sit on my hands while they live through consequences that are shaping them into adults…
and I feel guilty either way.
I reread old messages to check my tone.
Did that sound supportive?
Did that sound controlling?
Was that a normal question or an interrogation disguised as care?
I offer advice too quickly.
Then I bite my tongue so hard I practically need stitches.
I tell myself, “They’re grown. Give them space.”
And then I lie awake wondering if space feels like distance.
I say yes to last-minute dinners when I’m exhausted
because what if this is the only night they ask?
I say no to something I truly can’t do
and replay it three times, wondering if I just closed a door I didn’t mean to.
I feel guilty for not being needed the way I used to be.
And guilty for secretly missing that version of myself.
I am the mom who knows they’re capable.
And still double-checks that they ate.
Honestly, I could feel guilty about feeling guilty.
It’s practically a graduate-level skill at this point.
And if you’re reading this with that quiet little exhale that says, “Oh good. It’s not just me,” then maybe you’re walking this tightrope too.
Maybe this is just part of loving big kids who are no longer fully ours to manage but will always be ours to love.
Maybe guilt shows up because we care so deeply that we want to get it right.
But parenting bigs isn’t a pass/fail exam. It’s recalibration.
We adjust.
We overcorrect.
We apologize.
We text, “Hey, I think I was a little intense earlier.”
We sit on our hands when everything in us wants to intervene.
We intervene when everything in us wants to retreat.
We are contradictory.
We are learning.
We are still showing up.
And maybe the goal isn’t to eliminate guilt entirely.
Maybe it’s to notice it without letting it define us.
To say, “Okay, guilt. I see you. You can ride along, but you don’t get to drive.”
Because the louder truth — the one I have to keep reminding myself of — is this:
We are not failing.
We are loving.
And sometimes loving looks like too much.
And sometimes it looks like not enough.
And most days it looks like both before dinner.
If you’re that mom — the hovering one, the retreating one, the fixer, the overthinker, the potato chips-after-9pm regulator — I see you.
Wink across the room.
We’re in this together.
From my guilty mama heart to yours,
Esther
💬 Mom-to-Mom Reflection:
How do you battle your own mom guilt? Or anything else you want to share, because I love comments!!
Bless my heart…
