Of Messy Rooms and Motherhood: A Memoir in Progress

Ever since embracing motherhood, the saying “It takes a village to raise a child” has become clearer to me. As I was growing alongside my children, I realised that raising kids isn’t something you can learn from a manual. The “dos and don’ts” shift constantly and every child is different. There are no perfect twins when it comes to personalities or needs.

At some point, every mother grapples with the fear of not being a “good parent.” The quiet, persistent questions echo:

• Am I doing enough?

• Am I doing it right?

In our mission to raise self-reliant, well-adjusted, successful children — most importantly, children who never make grave mistakes — we carry a heavy weight. And if something ever goes wrong, we fear it might somehow be our fault.

I’ve met many parents who feel the pressure from judgmental voices, societal expectations, and the guilt that sneaks in even when you know you’re trying your best. Despite everything, one truth remains constant: the overwhelming urge to avoid being the parent who failed their child.

For me, every day felt new, filled with challenges, twists, and unknowns. I often told myself I was walking unfamiliar terrain daily. I was evolving alongside my kids. And often, it felt like they were the ones teaching me.

Each of my children responded differently to the same situations. Slowly, I learned that they were two distinct individuals with their own instincts and perspectives. It amazed me how quickly they figured me out — how they could anticipate my reactions before I even spoke.

When I met with other mothers, I’d make mental notes about behaviours, solutions, parenting hacks. But often, I couldn’t apply those notes. My children, my environment, my circumstances — they were different. Phrases like “Pick your battles,” or “Model the behaviour you want to see,” were commonly thrown around. Tantrums, regressions, mood swings all labelled as “just a phase.”

But to me, it wasn’t about phases. It was about progression before perfection. I saw things differently. I believed that communication should be the core of everything. Sports helped build confidence and self-esteem. And I wanted them to develop a hard skill — something they could fall back on. Most importantly, I wanted them to learn to manage themselves, without relying on external support. Did I achieve it, time will tell!

As they reached their teen years, it felt like we mothers had entered a collective storm. Every week, someone had a new teenage issue to report. We were all a bit restless, scared even of saying the wrong thing, scared of pushing too hard. The fear of our children slipping away emotionally, mentally became very real.

But through it all, we stayed connected. Our children grew up together. And as mothers, we kept each other from falling into the dark. We stood at our posts, alone, yet united in spirit. Still, we rarely faced the same challenges at the same time.

As the years passed, our experiences, like seasons, kept changing. The stakes grew higher. Academic pressure mounted. Our kids started shining in their own fields, and we could only hope we were keeping up.

And then came the overwhelming phases, moments where we were suddenly labelled or misunderstood. Times when we didn’t even feel like we were speaking the same language as our children. The fear of failure only grew deeper.

• How do we let go without losing?

• How do we guide without controlling, and love without smothering?

And now, just like that, I’m a mother to young adults, children who now try to elevate my skills to meet their standards. My core worry remains unchanged. I continue to care, quietly, with humility and honour. And yet now, their independence, their own “lair” sometimes feels like a nightmare. A place where I’m no longer needed the way I once was.

Until...

A few days ago, I met a mother. One with a few more years of experience than I had. Like all motherly gatherings, it turned into a safe space to vent, reflect, and share. We spoke as comrades in arms — each with her own battle scars. But her words stayed with me.

While we often prepare ourselves for battles — for struggles, heartbreak, and setbacks — she reminded me of something else. She taught me that healing sometimes lies not in fixing the mess, but in moving on from it. Not ignoring or avoiding it — just stepping out of the frame. Every situation has its time, its life span. And when that time is over, we don’t need to carry it any longer.

She echoed something I had always told my children, “If a situation isn’t of your own making, you’ll be fine.” But she gave it a new spin,

“If it’s not of your making, then step away.”

The wisdom lies in knowing when to walk away, not in how long you can endure.

I silently thanked her. A sore spot in my journey suddenly felt soothed. I found a kind of peace.

In the end, I’ve realised there may be only one universal parenting truth: avoid creating a situation that becomes your burden to carry. The rest? It’s all part of the journey.

So now, when I walk away from a messy room, an unwashed dish, or an argument that has lost its meaning, I do so maybe with a little more calm, maybe even with a slight skip in my step.