I thought I was ready to become a mother – it was the life I had always dreamed of.

I’ll never forget the warm wave of joy that washed over me when I saw two tiny lines on that pregnancy test. It was finally happening. The belly growing alongside my anticipation was there to prove it in the months that followed.

But something else began to grow within me, too: my desire not just to be *a* mother, but rather, one who would nourish the parts of her children’s hearts that were dry in mine. By the time I welcomed by firstborn into my arms, I had one goal in mind: don’t screw this up.

The pressure was on, the stakes were high – and rightly so, to an extent. I didn’t want my kids to have to go through the same, painful processes of inner healing that I found myself seemingly stuck in, so I vowed to get everything right.

Until I (inevitably) failed, despite knowing better.
Until the experts disagreed about what children truly need and all the conflicting opinions made me dizzy.
Until I realized how huge the gap was between how intentional I was about holding space for my child… and how hard I was on myself.

I realized suffocating my emotions for the sake of raising emotionally intelligent human beings wasn’t going to get us far. That’s when the real journey began.