intentional motherhood
A reflection on presence, identity, and becoming alongside our children.
I've been thinking a lot lately about what intentional motherhood actually means.
Well, not just lately.
Truthfully, I've been thinking about it ever since I decided to become a mother. It's a question that's become increasingly popular. We hear it in conversations, see it on social media, and read it in countless parenting books. Somewhere between all the advice, beautifully curated routines and endless checklists, I found myself wondering...
What does intentional motherhood actually look like in my home?
Not in theory. Not on Pinterest. Not in a perfectly organized home or colour-coded family calendar.
But in the ordinary moments that quietly shape our family.
The more I've thought about it, the more I've realized that intentional motherhood has very little to do with having all the answers, or being a specific way.
Instead, it's become a way of returning to myself. A conscious decision to pause, reflect, and ask whether the woman I'm becoming aligns with the kind of mother I hope my children experience.
And whether the woman I'm becoming is someone I'll one day look back on with peace vs regret.
If I'm being honest, I don't think intentional motherhood is just about raising children.
I think it's about allowing us as women to evolve constantly.
The conversation I've never forgotten
Not long after finding out I was pregnant with my first child, I remember speaking with an older man who told me how “pathetic” he thought it was for a woman to have a baby in order to create meaning in her life.
It was a strange thing to say to someone who had just discovered they were expecting.
At the time, I didn't really know how to respond.
Looking back now, I can appreciate that we never truly know what experiences have shaped another person's beliefs. Life has a way of leaving marks on all of us. But I've also learnt that compassion doesn't require me to adopt someone else's perspective as true.
Motherhood didn't suddenly hand my life meaning. It wasn't something I was searching for to complete me.
Rather, motherhood changed the way I searched for meaning altogether.
It shifted the questions I began asking myself.
Instead of asking,
"What can I achieve next?"
I found myself asking,
"Who am I becoming?"
Somewhere along the journey, success stopped looking like something that could be measured by achievements alone. It became something much quieter. Much more personal. Less about proving. More about presence.
Motherhood as a lifelong becoming
The other day I caught myself thinking about something that I think about every now and again.
If I'm fortunate enough to live a long life, I'll likely spend more years as a mother than I ever spent as the version of myself before motherhood. That thought stopped me in my tracks.
We often talk about becoming a mother as this single milestone, a moment that begins the day our child is born. But that hasn't been my experience at all. Motherhood hasn't felt like one defining moment. It's felt like a thousand tiny transformations.
Each stage asks something different of you.
Each season gently invites you to grow in ways you never expected.
Looking back, I actually think the early years were gentler on my sense of identity.
Of course they were physically exhausting, emotionally demanding and at times totally consuming, but there was also an unspoken understanding from the world around me. People just expected life to look different.
They expected you to move a little slower.
To cancel plans.
To be late.
To have your hands full.
Mothering a tiny human somehow explained everything.
Then, almost without warning, your child begins formal childcare or school.
And, well...
Things start to feel different.
I remember thinking once my child started school that I'd somehow have "more time." Instead, life became fuller. The logistics increased and the emotional and psychological labour changed.
Life asks you to step back into old roles while continuing to grow into entirely new ones.
You're expected to be present for the weekly family reading session, remember crazy hair day, prepare snacks and lunches, nurture relationships, manage work, maintain a home, care for yourself and somehow keep all the invisible pieces of family life moving.
It's a season that, for me, has required far more intentionality than I ever expected.
Not because I love my child any less.
But because the complexity quietly compounds.
The decisions become less about survival and more about discernment.
Where do I spend my energy? What really matters today? What deserves my attention? Who am I becoming in the middle of all of this?
These aren't questions I ask because I have the answers.
They're questions I return to because they help me live with greater intention.
And perhaps that's what intentional motherhood means to me.
Not striving to become the perfect mother. But choosing, again and again, to become a more present woman.
Intentional motherhood begins with the mother
For a long time, I thought being a good mother meant focusing almost entirely on my children. After all, that's the message many of us receive.
Be selfless. Be available. Put everyone else first. Keep giving.
Then give a little more.
And while I believe there is something incredibly beautiful about the generosity that motherhood calls us into, I've also come to realize that constantly abandoning ourselves isn't the same as loving our children well.
In fact, I think the opposite can sometimes be true.
The older my child becomes, the more I realize they're learning just as much from the way I treat myself as they are from the way I treat them.
They're watching how I respond when things don't go to plan. They notice whether I apologize when I've spoken too quickly or reacted in frustration. They see whether I rest when I'm overwhelmed or continue pushing until I have nothing left to give.
They hear the way I speak about my body, my work and my worth. Long before they understand my advice, they're learning from my example.
And if that's true, then caring for myself isn't separate from caring for my family.
It's part of it.
That has been one of the biggest mindset shifts of my motherhood journey.
The guilt we don't always talk about
If I'm completely honest, guilt still finds its way into my days more often than I'd like. Sometimes it's loud. Sometimes it's incredibly subtle.
It sounds like...
"I don't cook enough."
"I don't clean enough."
"I should be more organized."
"I should have been more patient."
"Maybe I shouldn't have picked up that shift"
"Maybe I should have played for another ten minutes."
Motherhood has a way of convincing us that there is always something more we could be doing.
And if we're not careful, we begin measuring ourselves against an impossible standard that was never designed for real women living real lives.
I've started to question those thoughts rather than automatically believing them.
Who decided that a good mother never gets tired? Who decided she should always be available?
Who decided that her own dreams, ambitions or need for rest somehow became less important the day she had children?
I certainly don't want my own children to grow up believing love looks like self-abandonment.
I want them to know that it's possible to care deeply for others while also caring deeply for yourself. Not because it's easy.
But because it's sustainable.
Learning to repair instead of pretending
One of the practices that has become increasingly important in our home is apologizing.
Not because I want my children to think I get everything wrong.
But because I want them to know that relationships are built through repair, not perfection. There are days when I lose my cool. Days when I've reached my capacity. Days when the mental load feels heavier than I'd like to admit.
Years ago, I might have carried the guilt quietly and hoped everyone moved on.
Now, I try to do something different.
I pause and take a moment for myself. I attempt to regulate before trying to fix the situation.
And then, if I need to, I speak up. I apologize.
Not because apologizing makes me a weaker parent, or less authoritative.
But because it teaches something I hope my children carry into every relationship they have.
That it's okay to make mistakes. That taking responsibility is a strength. And that love isn't measured by never getting it wrong.
It's measured by being willing to come back together afterwards and making things right.
I've come to believe that some of the most important moments in motherhood don't happen because everything went according to plan. They happen because we chose connection after things fell apart.
Perhaps that's intentional motherhood too.
What intentional motherhood looks like in our home
People often imagine intentional motherhood as something that has to be carefully planned.
A beautifully structured morning routine. Educational activities. Organic and always home cooked meals.
The perfect balance between presence and productivity.
While those things certainly have their place, that's never really been what intentional motherhood has looked like in our home.
For us, it's usually much more relaxed than that.
Sometimes it's being together in the same space, and doing separate activities while bantering with each other every now and again.
Sometimes it's making a simple snack together and letting my child stir, chop or sprinkle ingredients, even if it takes twice as long.
Sometimes it's being in the car together, talking about absolutely nothing and somehow ending up in a conversation about everything.
Children have this incredible ability to ask questions that stop you in your tracks.
Questions about appropriateness. About the body. About friendships. About why people behave the way they do.
Sometimes I don't even think they're looking for an answer. Sometimes I don't even have an answer (This is when Google comes in handy.)
They're simply inviting us into the way they see the world.
Those moments have become some of my favourites.
Because they remind me that presence often matters more than having the perfect response.
Intentional motherhood, for me, is creating enough safety that those conversations keep happening.
That my child knows they can bring me their curiosity without fear of judgement or regret.
That home continues to be a place where they feel heard.
The beauty of ordinary moments
One thing motherhood has taught me is that the moments we remember are rarely the ones we planned.
One afternoon my son discovered a video of someone dancing to Waka Waka by Shakira. For reasons only children seem to understand, he decided he needed to recreate it. He danced with such confidence and joy that I couldn't stop laughing.
The kind of laughter that catches you completely off guard. The kind that makes your stomach ache.
As I looked over, I noticed my husband watching the two of us. He wasn't laughing quite as loudly as I was.
He was smiling.
Watching his son delight in making his mum laugh.
Watching me surrender completely to the moment.
And I remember thinking afterwards that this was it.
Not the perfectly planned family outing.
Not the expensive holiday.
Not the milestone photograph.
Just three people sharing a moment of completely unfiltered joy.
I think we spend so much time trying to create memorable childhoods that we sometimes overlook the fact that joy often arrives unannounced.
It interrupts us.
It asks us to stop folding the washing for a moment. To forget the dishes for five minutes.
To laugh a little louder than we normally would.
I've realized intentional motherhood isn't always about creating meaningful moments.
Sometimes it's simply about recognizing them when they arrive.
A home where we can all keep becoming
If there's one thing I hope my children experience in our home, it's that none of us have to be finished versions of ourselves.
Not me. Not them. Not their dad.
We're all allowed to learn.
To change our minds.
To apologize.
To grow.
Some days that looks like holding firm boundaries. Other days it looks like bending the rules just enough to stay up late on a school night. It can look like tidying a room together because we're caring for the space we live in, not because we're chasing perfection.
It can look like saying, "I need some space," when I know I'm reaching my capacity instead of pretending I'm endlessly patient.
I hope my children remember a mother who participated in life with them. A mother who had a genuine thirst for life.
Who remained curious and brought the best out in other people. Who was wise enough to admit she didn't always have the answers.
And who loved with her whole heart.
Because when I picture the woman I hope they remember one day, I don't picture someone who got everything right.
I picture someone who kept showing up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Perhaps that's what intentional motherhood has always been inviting me to do.
Motherhood beyond the walls of our home
As my child has grown, I’ve also realized that intentional motherhood doesn’t only happen inside our home.
It follows us into classrooms and onto sports fields.
Into waiting rooms, community centres and unfamiliar spaces filled with people whose values, expectations and ways of communicating may be different from our own.
Extracurricular activities, in particular, have played a significant role in our family life.
On the surface, they’re about learning a skill.
Developing discipline. Building confidence. Discovering interests.
Giving a child something to look forward to after school.
But they’ve also asked us to navigate people, systems and environments that include our child without always being designed with our particular family in mind.
And that has come with its own kind of education.
There have been moments when we’ve had to ask ourselves whether our child was being fully seen.
Whether he was receiving the same opportunities, encouragement or consideration as everyone else.
Whether something was simply an uncomfortable interaction, or whether it reflected a pattern that needed to be addressed.
There have been moments when race has entered the conversation, whether directly or quietly.
Moments when we’ve felt sidelined. Moments when we’ve had to decide whether to let something go, ask for clarification or speak up more firmly.
Those decisions are rarely straightforward.
Sometimes you wonder whether you’re overthinking it.
Sometimes you question whether saying something will make the situation more difficult for your child.
Sometimes you want to protect their experience without making them feel as though every disappointment carries a deeper meaning.
And sometimes, you simply know that remaining silent could teach the wrong lesson.
I’ve learnt that advocacy doesn’t always have to be loud.
It can look like asking a direct question. Requesting clarity.
Following up when something doesn’t make sense.
Naming what we’ve observed without immediately assuming the worst.
Giving someone the opportunity to respond.
And, when necessary, deciding that a particular environment is no longer right for our family.
Standing up for ourselves doesn’t always mean confrontation. Sometimes it means refusing to make ourselves smaller in order to remain comfortable for other people.
It means trusting our instincts while still leaving room for nuance. It means understanding that belonging should not require silence.
These experiences have also made me think deeply about what I want my children to learn when they enter spaces without me.
I want them to know how to navigate different personalities.
How to listen. How to take feedback.
How to respect authority without assuming authority is always right.
How to tell the difference between being challenged and being diminished.
I don’t want them to interpret every uncomfortable moment as rejection.
But I also don’t want them to be so accustomed to discomfort that they stop noticing when something isn’t fair.
That balance matters to me.
I want my children to be adaptable without becoming invisible.
Confident without believing they have to prove their worth in every room.
Able to advocate for themselves without feeling ashamed for doing so.
And secure enough in who they are that one person’s inability to recognise their value does not become the measure of it.
Of course, these are lessons I’m still learning too.
There have been times when I’ve spoken too quickly.
Times when I’ve waited too long.
Times when I’ve replayed an interaction afterwards and wondered whether I handled it in the best possible way.
But perhaps intentional motherhood isn’t about responding perfectly in every difficult situation.
Perhaps it’s about being willing to notice.
To ask questions and reflect. To adjust.
And to show our children that they’re allowed to expect dignity in the spaces they enter.
The world will introduce them to all kinds of people.
Some will make them feel immediately welcome. Some will misunderstand them. Some will challenge them in ways that help them grow. Others may ask them, directly or indirectly, to shrink.
I can’t control every environment my children will enter.
I can’t prevent every moment of exclusion, disappointment or confusion.
But I can help create a home where they can return and make sense of what happened.
A home where they can say,
“Something felt off”
And know I’ll listen.
A home where we can talk about race, fairness, power and belonging without making those conversations feel frightening or forbidden.
A home where they can learn that speaking up is not the same as being difficult.
And where they understand that leaving an environment that repeatedly fails to honour you can sometimes be an act of self-respect.
That, too, is part of the mother I’m becoming.
Not someone who can clear every obstacle from my children’s path.
But someone who can help them trust themselves as they learn how to walk through the world.
What intentional motherhood means to me
The more I reflect on intentional motherhood, the less interested I become in defining it through a list of things a good mother should do.
Because motherhood cannot be reduced to how often we cook from scratch. How organized our homes are. How many activities our children attend. How patient we are on our hardest days. Or how convincingly we manage to make family life look effortless.
Those things may form part of our lives, but they don’t tell the whole story.
For me, intentional motherhood is about attention.
It’s paying attention to the atmosphere I’m helping to create.
To the way I speak when I’m tired. To the things my children are trying to tell me, even when they don’t yet have the perfect words. To the moments when I need to hold a boundary and the moments when I need to soften.
It’s paying attention to myself too.
To the woman underneath the responsibilities and whether I’m moving through life in a way that feels honest.
To whether I’m caring for my children from a place of love or from fear, guilt and the pressure to prove that I’m doing enough.
Intentional motherhood is not a promise that I’ll always get it right.
It’s a commitment to remain conscious. To return when I’ve become distracted and repair when I’ve caused hurt.
To speak when something needs to be said and to rest when I’ve reached my limit.
To stay curious about who my children are becoming instead of assuming I already know.
It’s understanding that my children are not extensions of me.
They’ll have their own personalities. Their own beliefs. Their own ways of moving through the world.
Their own memories of the home we created together.
I can guide them. Protect them. Teach them. Love them.
But I cannot live their lives for them.
What I can do is give them a foundation sturdy enough to return to.
A sense of belonging that doesn’t disappear the moment they enter a room where they feel different.
The confidence to ask questions and the freedom to make mistakes.
Providing them the knowledge that love can include honesty, boundaries, accountability and change.
When I think about the mother I hope my children remember, I don’t imagine someone endlessly cheerful or perfectly composed.
I don’t imagine a woman who never lost her temper, forgot an appointment or ordered takeaway because she couldn’t tolerate cooking dinner.
I imagine someone who was engaged with her own life. Someone who laughed with them.
Listened to them. Advocated for them. Apologized to them.
And allowed them to witness her continuing to grow.
I hope they remember that I was interested in who they were and not only in who I wanted them to become.
That I created space for conversation and took their concerns seriously.
That I taught them how to stand up for themselves without teaching them to move through the world expecting a fight.
I hope they remember joy.
The dancing. The jokes. The car conversations.
The small moments that became meaningful without any of us planning them.
And I hope they remember that I was more than the sum of everything I did for them.
That I was also a woman with dreams, questions, work, limitations and a genuine thirst for life.
Because I don’t want my children to believe that loving them required me to disappear.
I want them to understand that some of the greatest love I can offer is showing them what it looks like to remain connected to yourself while caring deeply for other people.
Perhaps that’s what this journey has been teaching me all along.
That motherhood isn’t asking me to become flawless. It’s asking me to become more honest.
More present. More discerning. More willing to return.
And maybe one day, when my children think back on their childhood, they won’t remember whether every meal was homemade or if a bedtime story was read every night.
Maybe they’ll remember how our home felt.
That they were allowed to speak out and encouraged to think.
That they were deeply loved.
And that their mother kept choosing to grow alongside them.
Again.
And again.
And again.
That is what intentional motherhood means to me.
