Love Isn’t Performance — It’s Presence
One mother’s journey through guilt, grief, and the quiet rebuilding of love. There is a version of motherhood no one warns you about. The one where joy is eclipsed by appointments, and milestones are measured not by age but by ability. The one where guilt becomes a second skin, and grief walks beside you through every ordinary day. The one where you carry two children in your heart — one who needs you constantly, and another who learns to need you quietly. That is my life. I have two daughters. One of them has autism. The other is growing up in the shadow of a family system, being a carefree bird she is. And I am the mother — standing in the middle — trying to stretch myself wide enough to hold both of them, even when I am threadbare. For a long time, I believed love was something I had to prove. That to be a good mother, I had to be tireless, cheerful, endlessly available. That I had to overcompensate for the things I couldn’t change — the diagnosis, the future. This belief beca...