No Regrets...About Motherhood.

Now that I’m a grandmother, I have the gift of hindsight. And this Mother’s Day, I’m reflecting on the winding, often messy, always meaningful path of raising three daughters—each of whom is now a mother herself.
They like to remind me how tough I was. How strict. How unyielding. And they’re right. I had high expectations. I didn’t sugarcoat reality. I rarely softened my message to make it easier to hear. But I always led with love. My daughters knew where the line was—and though they pushed it (and pushed me), they were always met with consistency, structure, and truth. That was my love language. And now, years later, they thank me for it.
I knew the kind of mother I wanted to be. I never wavered. My peers didn’t influence me. Society didn’t shape my choices. I trusted my instincts, leaned into my values, and showed up with unwavering clarity. I wasn’t interested in being the “cool mom.” I wanted to raise strong, capable, loving women who could stand on their own—and I did.
I come from a line of strong women. My mother was selfless, entrepreneurial, disciplined. She didn’t have time for fluff or sentimentality. She was too busy building, surviving, providing. She didn’t shower us with affection, but we always knew her love was there—in the sacrifices, in the effort, in the way she never gave up. I took all of that strength and added my own touch: more openness, more tenderness, more laughter.
I wasn’t the mom who hovered. I didn’t micromanage homework. I never tutored my girls—but I expected excellence. I didn’t coddle—but I defended them like a lioness when I needed to. I sent them to challenging schools, gave them room to struggle, and encouraged them to rely on themselves. I wanted them to know the world wouldn’t bend for them—and that they were strong enough to face it.
Our home was alive. We danced in the kitchen. We argued. We cried. We forgave. We had open conversations about everything—sex, mistakes, relationships, regret, and hope. I let them see my flaws. I let them hear my stories. And yes, when my husband turned 50, we smoked a little pot together. Because life should be full of joy, honesty, and a little rebellion when it feels right.
Their friends often told them how lucky they were. Not because we were perfect, but because we were real. Our home was a space of truth, safety, and connection. Their rebellion was predictable, even welcomed. But I never let them forget—I was their friend, yes. But I was their mother first.
Teenage years were rocky. There were a few therapy sessions. Heartbreaks. Loneliness. Chaos. But we weathered it together. And now, what I’m most proud of—more than their careers, or degrees, or successes—is how deeply they love each other. How they show up for one another. That bond is my greatest gift to them.
Motherhood isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. It's about having the courage to lead with clarity and the humility to admit when you’re wrong. It’s about setting boundaries and still making room for dance parties, hard conversations, and the occasional joint.
This Mother’s Day, I honor the women who came before me. The mother who made me tough. And I celebrate the women I raised, who made me proud.
We all mother differently—but if we mother with intention, with love, with consistency—then we’ve done well. I look at my grandchildren now, and I see the ripple effect. The strength passed down. The love, evolving. And I know: no regrets. Just love.

Happy Mother’s Day 2025!