Balancing Kids, Chores, and a Heavy Heart

Today was one of those days where I feel like I never stopped moving. From the moment I opened my eyes, it was go, go, go. Dishes piled up in the sink, laundry waiting in every corner, toys scattered like confetti after a parade. I swear, I washed, cleaned, folded, scrubbed, and then did it all over again because somehow everything gets messy the second I finish. Moms should honestly get superhero capes.

But the hardest part of my day wasn’t the cleaning—it was juggling it all while also dealing with the kids. It’s this constant dance between making sure the house doesn’t fall apart and making sure my little ones are fed, entertained, safe, and loved. And honestly? That dance is exhausting.

One of the hardest things about parenting small kids—toddlers especially—is that they can’t always tell you what’s wrong. They don’t have the words yet, and as a parent, you’re just left guessing. I’ve said it before: raising toddlers feels like being a wizard, always trying new spells until something finally works. Sometimes the “spell” is milk, sometimes it’s cuddles, and sometimes it’s sheer luck.

Take today, for example. My little one just did not want to sleep. She cried, whined, twisted, turned—you name it. I tried everything I could think of: offered food, changed her diaper, tucked her in with her favorite blankets, gave her forehead kisses, hugged her, even cuddled her extra close. Still nothing. She looked so uncomfortable and restless, and my heart broke because I just didn’t know how to help.

I finally asked her if something hurt. She said “yes,” but how reliable is that from a toddler? I felt so torn. I don’t like giving medicine unless I know for sure, but I couldn’t stand seeing her struggle. So I gave her some painkillers. And after that, she calmed down. Within minutes, she fell asleep peacefully, like a little angel. Watching her rest after so much struggle felt like such a relief—but also left me questioning myself. Did she really need it? Did I do the right thing? These moments are tough, because so much of parenting at this stage feels like guesswork.

And here’s the thing I don’t always admit out loud: some nights, after the chaos has quieted down, I wonder if I’m a good mother. I get so frustrated at times that I burst out on the kids, and the guilt that follows is crushing. I never mean to be rude or harsh, but the overwhelm gets the best of me. I always apologize, and I try to explain to them that Mommy was wrong, that I should have handled it better. But the regret still lingers. Every single day, I try to do better.

I think a lot of moms feel like this, but we don’t always say it. We put on a brave face, smile in photos, post the happy moments online, and quietly wrestle with the guilt when the kids are finally asleep. Parenting is beautiful, but it’s also brutally hard. And sometimes, I feel too young for all of it. Like I wasn’t fully ready. Like I was thrown into this huge responsibility while I was still figuring out who I was.

And then, there’s something even heavier on my heart that I need to talk about. Abortion.

I’m against it. Always have been. But this year, I went through one. And it’s something I regret with every part of me. I cry about it often. It’s in my mind all the time—what my baby would have looked like, what their voice would have sounded like, what their laugh would have felt like in my arms. That pain doesn’t go away. It’s a wound that I know will never fully heal.

I hate that I went through it. I hate that I felt like I had no other choice at the time. I hate myself for it. And I don’t want to risk ever being in that position again. Intimacy feels like a risk I never want to take. The regret is unbearable, and the questions—endless. Who would that child have been? Would they have had my eyes? My laugh? Would they have loved to dance or sing or paint? I’ll never know. And that hurts in a way words can’t really explain.

I pray every night for forgiveness. I pray God understands my pain, my fear, and my regret. And I pray that one day, I’ll find peace. But right now, it still feels raw. Like a shadow I can’t escape.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been through something similar, please know—you’re not alone. I know how heavy this pain is. I know how it feels to wonder if you’ll ever stop hurting. I know the nights where you cry into your pillow so no one else hears. I know the guilt that gnaws at your soul.

But I also know this: regret means you cared. Regret means you loved that child, even if you never got to meet them. Regret means you have a heart that feels deeply, even when it hurts. And while the pain might never disappear, it can transform. Over time, you may find ways to honor that baby, to carry their memory with love instead of only sorrow.

To every mother out there struggling—whether it’s with housework, sleepless toddlers, guilt, or grief—please remember: you’re doing better than you think. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to make mistakes. None of that takes away from the fact that you are trying, and that makes you a good mom.

We don’t need to be perfect. We just need to keep showing up, keep loving, and keep trying. That’s enough. You’re enough.

And if you’re reading this with tears in your eyes because you’ve been where I am, I want to say this to you: don’t give up. Don’t let the guilt swallow you whole. Let’s walk this road together, with compassion for ourselves. Let’s learn to forgive ourselves the way we hope God forgives us.

Because even in the hardest days, even in the nights filled with regret, there is still hope. And sometimes, hope is the only thing that gets us through.