What If I Won’t Be the Mom I Always Dreamed I Would Be...?

It started with Nova.

When we brought her home as a tiny 6-week-old puppy, I had no idea that loving her would reveal one of my deepest fears. I’ve always been a cat person...Shadow’s been my sidekick for 15 years...but Nova was the first puppy I ever raised. She was so small, so soft, so cuddly. I could bathe her in the sink standing upright. She curled up beside me for naps, and everything felt manageable, slow, and sweet.

But as she grew, so did the physical demands. Bathing her now means bending, kneeling, lifting...a recipe for flare-ups with fibromyalgia. Adrian had to take over. Trips to the park turned into me sitting on a bench, sidelined, watching them as they run and play while my body couldn’t...

One of my hardest nights came during a fibro flare. It was the first time I couldn’t even blow-dry Nova after her bath. Even after I had handed over the actual bathing to Adrian, I still had my part. I’d gently blow dry her fur, rub coconut oil on her paws and nose, clean her ears, give her little treats, and love on her afterward. It was my way of still showing up as her mom, even when I couldn’t do it all.

But that night… I just couldn’t. I tried...I really did. I bent over with the blow dryer in hand, even though my body was screaming. She was bigger now, harder to handle, and the pain was unbearable. I cried through it. I was trying so hard to hold onto just one part of being present.

Until Adrian came over.

He saw me...really saw me...and gently took the blow dryer from my hands.

He told me to stop.

And then… he just held me.

That moment broke me and healed me all at once.

I’m writing this blog on one of those days where I’m stuck in bed again. My body hurts, my mind is racing, and I just keep thinking about it. So I’m doing what I do best...I'm writing it out. Because sometimes getting it onto the page is the only way to breathe through the weight of it all.

Last night was heavy.

During my OCD therapy session, I brought up something I’ve been too afraid to say out loud...my fears about becoming a mother with fibromyalgia. I told her I didn’t know what that would look like. I admitted I didn’t know if I could physically be the mom I always dreamed I’d be. The guilt, the limitations, the unknown...it’s been piling up inside me.

My therapist asked “How long have you wanted to be a mom?”

And without hesitation, I said… “As long as I can remember.”

You know how when you're a little kid, and people ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I’d say things like…

A princess.

An actress.

A model.

Maybe a wedding planner.

But deep down…

It was always a wife and a mother.

I’m a wife now.

But there’s still a piece missing.

We both want children-we talk about them all the time.

We’re just waiting until we move back home.

And in the waiting… I’m healing.

I’m preparing.

And I’m praying

She listened with so much gentleness and then suggested something simple but powerful: "Look up videos or support groups...see how other women with chronic illness navigate motherhood. You might find comfort in knowing you’re not alone."

So I did. That same night, after the session, I opened TikTok and searched motherhood with fibromyalgia.

And I came across a video that completely shattered me.

A woman, raw and exhausted, said through tears, "It’s not the pain that’s the hardest part anymore. It’s the guilt." She shared how her four-year-old brings her apple juice and tucks her in bed early on the days she can’t keep going. "He doesn’t understand why mommy needs rest, but he loves me anyway," she said. "But it shouldn’t be this way...What do you do, you know?"

And in the background of the video… I could hear it.

Her kids laughing and playing in the next room.

And her...lying in bed, alone.

That’s when I broke down.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was.

But because it hurt.

Yes, that moment held love. But all I could think was...it shouldn’t be their childhood.

A child shouldn’t have to tuck in their mom.

A child shouldn’t be the gentle caretaker.

That wasn’t my childhood… and I don’t want it to be theirs.

I sobbed.

I opened the comments, hoping for comfort. And I saw message after message from adult sons and daughters of moms with chronic illness:

"I remember my mom being in bed a lot... but I don’t remember that as a bad thing."

"I didn’t notice the tired days...I remember the laughter. The love. The way she always showed up, even when she couldn’t run."

They meant to comfort...and maybe, in time, they will.

But in that moment, it only deepened the ache.

Because I wasn’t just afraid of what my future children might remember…

I was afraid of what I might miss.

And what I might unintentionally shape.

I broke down...ugly cried, hands shaking, heart aching. The guilt hit like a tidal wave...I went to my husband...I told Adrian everything... Every word that felt shameful. Every fear that felt too big to carry alone...

" If I can’t even care for a dog the way She deserves..I don't deserve her. She deserves more...she deserves better; What if I can’t ...what If shouldn't be a mother...?"

I felt like I had already failed someone I loved.

Like I failed my children before they're even conceived...I felt like my body had betrayed me again.

And the hardest part? I told him" You can’t just put kids to bed early and check out...You can’t lock a child in a crate like a puppy when the pain flares or fatigue crushes me... Children need their mother."

They need your presence, your guidance, your energy... And I was terrified I wouldn’t have enough of any of it.

He just… held me.

He looked at me with the kindest eyes and said,

"Baby, if I have to push you around in a wheelchair just to make sure you’re with them, I will. I promise. You’re going to be a great mom."

I whispered back, with tears In my eyes and quivering lips...“Yeah… but I won’t be my mom.”

And that’s when he said:

"You only remember your mom that way because it wasn’t a choice...It was what she had to do... She did it all alone... But you… you won’t do this alone. You’ll have me. You’ll have your mom as Mimi. We’re going to have your whole family when we move back to Florida next year. It takes a village that say-and you’ll have one."

And in that moment, I felt my heart exhale.

---

Maybe...

Maybe I won’t run in the park.

Maybe I won’t be the “Pinterest-perfect” mom I envisioned.

But maybe… that’s not what makes a good mom.

Maybe presence doesn’t always look like jumping and chasing.

Maybe it looks like loving deeply, showing up honestly, and letting your children witness what real strength looks like.

Maybe the mom I’ll become is different than I planned…

But maybe...just maybe...she’s exactly the mother my children will need.

Maybe they won’t remember the days I was in bed.

Maybe they’ll remember the way I looked at them like they were my whole world.

Maybe they’ll remember my voice when I prayed over them at night.

Maybe they’ll remember my arms, even tired, still reaching for them.

Maybe they’ll feel safe. Seen. Loved.

Maybe it’ll be just like it was with Nova...

Maybe they won’t notice the ways I adjusted...because they’ll be too busy feeling loved.

And maybe… Just maybe...that will be enough.

---

A quiet prayer to my future babies:

I don’t know who you are yet.

I don’t know when you’ll arrive, or what your little laugh will sound like.

But I already love you.

I already ache to protect you, to teach you, to show up for you...even on the days I feel like I can’t.

If I have less energy some days, I hope you feel my love in softer ways.

If I’m in bed, I hope you know I’m never far...

If I cry, I hope you learn that emotions are safe.

If I falter, I hope you see that grace is stronger than perfection.

And above all...I hope you know I fought for you, even before I held you.

You won’t just be raised in a house...

You’ll be raised in a heart that never stopped believing God made no mistake when He made me your mom.

And I promise you this...

I will fiercely love you. Until my last breath.

I already feel a love that is more fierce than anything I’ve ever known,

and you’re not even here yet.

I can't imagine what I feel the moment the Doctor places you In my arms...I heard it's a love like no other...

And when that moment comes...when I finally meet you...I’ll whisper through the pain...the tears... and trembling joy,

“You are worth it... Every moment. Every prayer. Every flare. Every fear.”

I already love you that much.

I always will.

Forever,

Mommy.

---

"She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future." Proverbs 31:25

Kristen, Unfiltered Xo 💋