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I sat with a group of middle school moms who chatted about their kids. Superlatives only. No bloopers allowed.
“Science is too simple for Mark,” one said. “I squeezed in a tutor.”
Another jumped in. “Bobby’s robotics group won. He plans on going to MIT.”
It wasn’t just a conversation. It was positioning. Everything on message. As if childhood were a publicity campaign, not a process.
“What’s Marty up to?” another asked me.
I hesitated. My son has celiac, Lyme, long COVID, and chronic fatigue. None of it presents well.
The night before, he was too tired to do his math homework, so he played Fortnite. A good mom would have forced productivity; I snacked on Swedish Fish and watched “Severance.” What looks permissive is often survival. But barely getting by isn’t a good bullet point.
“Marty is getting better,” I said. “He really enjoys math.” It sounded convincing enough to pass.
“Moms [are] reluctant to share anything that doesn’t fit into their highlight reel,” said Ciera Kirkpatrick, Ph.D., a University of Nebraska assistant professor whose research shows that picture-perfect versions of motherhood set unrealistic standards. “We need to talk about what life is actually like,” Kirkpatrick said.
But the myth of maternal omnipotence rests on the idea that struggle is something to hide.
The wrong message
Fifteen years ago, I walked into an IVF clinic. Just before my embryo transfer, the doctor pointed to a dividing cluster of cells.
“Your embryo is perfect,” he said. “That’s Harvard or Yale right there!”
But before I could place a sticker on my car, Marty hit a snag.
“Something’s wrong,” his pre-K teacher said. “Marty stopped listening.” We didn’t know it then, but he had an autoimmune disease and two tick infections. The teacher suggested a classroom aide and then lowered her voice. “The specialist should come after drop-off, so the other moms won’t know who she’s helping.”
But they lingered and looked around.
“Did you see the helper?” one mom asked later. “Which kid isn’t keeping up?”
“It’s not Joey,” another said. “He doesn’t have any problems. How’s Marty?”
I lied.
The truth felt too threatening to share.
Pressure to appear competent
When I imagined being a mom, I never considered a scenario where my kid couldn’t get to school. But in sixth grade, Marty caught COVID and was sidelined by intense fatigue and brain fog. He was homeschooled. I tracked tutors, battled insurance, and stayed up at midnight obsessing over microclots and my son’s T-cells.
I looked for support but got advice: “You’ve got to teach him that staying home isn’t an option.” “My kids say they’re tired, too. I make them push through.”
Long COVID was treated like a choice.
I measured my competence against other people’s assumptions and came up short. I tried behavior charts, bribes, and expert strategies. I was told to stay calm. I failed at that, too. The belief that a good mom can beat bad biology is seductive. I wanted it to be true.
I sobbed, screamed, and cycled through Zoloft and Lexapro. I barely slept. But at social gatherings, I said Marty was “getting there.” We were “figuring it out.” I framed it as a dip, not a collapse.
The performance was exhausting.
Optics cloud vision
We’re conditioned to measure success by outcomes and to admire resilience in hindsight, when it’s polished and presentable. Then we applaud. We rarely value the messy moments in real time. But Marty showed me that success isn’t just a destination. It’s a process.
For a long time, he didn’t get better. But he never quit.
“Let’s try bio-magnetic therapy,” I said. “It’s supposed to increase energy.” He lay still, took daily antibiotics, sat in front of a red-light machine, and swallowed 10 supplements each morning.
“Let’s try IVIG,” the immunologist suggested. “It will help him fight fatigue.”
Every other week, he clocked in for a four-hour infusion, extending his arm as a nurse slid a needle into his vein, immune cells dripping into his body. For over a year, his full-time job was recovering. There was grit in our house. Just not the kind that earns likes or social applause.
Motherhood unscripted
After months of exhaustion and interventions, Marty is finally back in school. The reality is filled with ups and downs. But no one moment defines his full story. And I’m no longer auditioning for the role of “good mother” in someone else’s play.
One afternoon, Marty came home exhausted. I nudged him. The tutor was coming.
“You’ve missed so much school,” I said.
“I’m at my limit,” he said. “Stop pressuring me.”
“Good” moms don’t cancel tutors, but that voice wasn’t just mine. It’s the one that says motherhood is measured by productivity that appears impressive from the outside. I took a breath and did something that felt almost reckless. I called off the weekly sessions. And when I ran into a mom on the street, I didn’t lie.
“How’s Marty?” she asked.
“He’s tired. It’s hard for him and me,” I said. “I’m lowering demands to give us both a break.”
She looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
Later, I sat with Marty. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Sometimes I feel like if I’m not pushing you, I’m not a good mom.”
He appeared confused. “But you’re a great mom,” he said. “I know how much you love me.”
Epilogue: Notice of termination
Subject: Resignation
To Whom It May Concern,
I’m resigning as my son’s unpaid publicist. Effective immediately.
When Marty was born, I thought my job was simple: love, support, encouragement, and repeating the same thing in different tones throughout the day.
Without explanation or onboarding, I was reassigned to a very different position: fiction writing, reputation management, and narrative control. But motherhood isn’t measured by a child’s achievements, curated appearances, or how neatly one can package them at dinner parties.
My son doesn’t have a brand to protect. He has a life to live. And his journey doesn’t fit into bullet points, hashtags, or headlines. I will no longer hide struggles that interfere with optics.
As a storyteller, I can assure you: Perfection is not only boring, it’s fictional. The stories that matter include uneven progress, bad timing, and moments made up of the stuff we don’t post or highlight in public.
I love being a mother, but not if I follow someone else’s rules. I’m ripping up the current script. My son will write his own. It has a questionable structure and no clear third act. Some scenes will be uncomfortable. The ending is uncertain. Honestly, that’s a story worth telling.
I’m proud to be his mother in that real-life drama. The establishment may not understand, but I’m no longer performing for them.
With clarity,
Becky
