I often reflect on those evenings when my mom would come home from work utterly exhausted. She’d greet us after school, whip up a quick dinner, and then retreat to her room for a much-needed nap. Sometimes she would wake just in time to serve us dinner; other times, we had to fend for ourselves.
When it came to homework, she ensured we did it, but she didn’t hover or offer much assistance. Independence was expected from us at a young age. I started preparing my lunch in second grade and began helping out around the house around the same time. I frequently babysat for my younger sibling. It was just our way of life, and I accepted it.
Yet there were moments of deep resentment. I compared my mom to other mothers — those who greeted their kids with cookies and snacks after school, who maintained spotless homes, and who participated actively in school events with endless cheerfulness (or so I thought).
My mom was a special education teacher, handling children with emotional challenges daily, often facing physical aggression. I understood how hard she worked and how exhausted she was. We always had what we needed, even though financial struggles existed. She worked tirelessly to provide for us, despite minimal support from my father.
Emotionally, my mom was present too. Yes, we had our arguments, but our home was a sanctuary where our feelings mattered, where we could be ourselves, and where love was unconditional.
Still, I longed for something more — for a different kind of mother. I found myself angry with her at times. Why couldn’t she find more energy to engage with us? Why couldn’t she be like the vibrant, fun mothers I envied? And why was I expected to shoulder so much responsibility at such a young age?
It has taken me nearly three decades to realize that my frustration with my mother was misdirected. Now that I’m a mother myself, I understand the exhaustion that comes with parenting — and I have a partner to share the load. I can’t fully grasp my mother’s experience as a single parent, but I’ve come to recognize something important.
While I still carry the sadness of that little girl who wished for more, I no longer blame my mother for our challenges. Instead, I hold society accountable for enabling fathers to step away from their families, for a legal system that allowed minimal financial support, and for a government that failed to provide adequate resources for struggling single parents. I feel a sense of anger towards these systemic issues.
My mom worked incredibly hard, doing her very best. She was a wonderful mother but was limited by the circumstances she faced. Even today, she expresses a wish that she could have been more involved — like I strive to be when I attend PTA meetings or help my kids with homework.
I know single moms don’t need our pity. Each has their unique challenges and victories, which may differ from my mother’s. Here’s what I want single moms to know: Just show up. Do your best. Love your kids fiercely. Provide them with emotional safety and unconditional love — that’s what truly matters. Remember that you can only do so much, and take time for your own needs too; you can’t pour from an empty cup.
My mother wasn’t perfect, but no one is. I now see her as an incredible woman who created a good life for us despite the obstacles she faced. Her strength and resilience have undoubtedly influenced me. I’m proud to be the child of a remarkable single mom, and I regret ever thinking otherwise.
For those interested in further support and resources for single parenting, I recommend checking out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination, as well as learning about the tools available for at-home insemination kits.
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