There are days when the weight of motherhood feels like it’s pressing down from all sides—days when I feel utterly helpless. Not because I don’t love my children or lack the desire to be everything they need. But because I do. Too much, sometimes.

I find myself caught in a loop of wanting to protect my daughters fiercely and completely. I don’t want to rely on others to care for them—not because others aren’t capable, but because I fear the words they use, the tones they take, and the impressions they might leave. I worry that a simple “no” said too harshly, a moment of fear-based correction, or even casual dismissal of their feelings could chip away at their sense of self. I see how fragile their internal world still is, and how easily power can be taken from them with a single careless comment.

I want them to grow up believing they are enough, that their emotions matter, that they can trust their own voice. And yet, I know I can’t wrap them in silence or shelter them forever. I know they will encounter others—helpers, relatives, friends, teachers—who will shape their view of the world in ways I can’t control. And that’s where the helplessness creeps in.

It’s a tightrope walk—between protecting and preparing. Between being the filter and being the guide. I want to be the one who explains the world to them, who tells them what’s safe, what’s kind, what’s right. But I also know that my daughters must learn to navigate life on their own terms. They will one day face situations where I won’t be there to speak for them, and they need to build resilience, confidence, and strength to stand their ground.

This duality is my daily battle. I wrestle with the guilt of needing help, the shame of not doing it all perfectly, and the fear that even a small lapse in control could alter their future.

And still, I show up. Every day. I try to give them grace, just as I try—however clumsily—to give it to myself. I remind myself that motherhood isn’t about perfection or control. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up honestly, even when we feel helpless. It’s about letting our children see that vulnerability exists, that love can coexist with fear, and that strength doesn’t always look like doing it all alone.

In those quiet, overwhelming moments, I breathe deeply and remind myself: I’m doing my best. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.