Because I Care, I'm Already Enough

There’s a certain quiet that comes with parenting teenagers. It’s different from the chaos of the early years. Not louder, not busier—just subtle as my children grow into adults, a different kind of stretch. You feel it when they pull away at times, testing their own independence. You feel it when you’re waiting up at night, hearing them come through the door but pretending to be asleep. There’s love there, still. But it lives differently now.

And sometimes, in all of it, you wonder.
If you’re doing enough.
If you’re holding too tight.
If you’ve already missed the mark, this is the fear for me.

But what no one tells you often enough is this: the wondering is the proof. The doubt, the guilt, the questions—they rise only because you care. And that care? It runs deep, even when things feel uncertain. Especially then.

Motherhood doesn’t come with applause anymore. There are no stickers for making it through a tough week, no one clapping when you stay calm instead of collapsing, or yelling and joining their chaos. But still, you keep going. You love in a thousand quiet ways—through active listening, learning what they love, patient support, being the calm to their storm and on the very rare occasion, being the confidant.

Somewhere along the way, you also learn this: that caring for them can’t come at the cost of forgetting yourself. It's not dramatic, this lesson. It’s found in small things. A quiet walk alone. A deep breath before answering. Taking the time to watch the garden, the birds and the wind. You start to realise that putting your own oxygen mask on first isn’t a cliché—it’s survival. It’s strength.

And no, the world won’t see those moments. They won't trend. They won’t be pinned or reposted. They don't need to be. But they matter. All of it matters.

You may not feel like you're getting it right all the time. But maybe it's not about getting it right. Maybe it's just about showing up—with love, with softness and vulnerability, with your whole imperfect self. That’s what they’ll remember. That’s what lasts.

So here I am. In the quiet middle of it all and peering into the next stage. Still loving. Still listening. Still believing—in the good days and the hard ones—that somehow, some way, it’s enough.

And it is.
Because I am, for them.

‍