One of my favourite photos in April of this year (2026) is an impromptu selfie as we waited on time between activities. It’s a favourite because there is significance in that moment that goes beyond ‘mother and child together’; for me, it captures something that society tells us we ought to hide beneath a brave face.
My cheeky, feral child, arms swung around my neck in affection and love and pure need for connection. It’s beautiful. But no one mentions the weight of it. It’s there—in the strained smile only a best friend might detect, the unplucked eyebrows, the internal need for quiet solitude that mostly goes unmet—and yet, what’s also there is an inexplicable and unrivalled bond, one that holds this weight and more.
For those who know me, it’s enough. For those who know parenting, it’s enough. Outside of these lines, there isn’t enough context for some. And that’s okay. I no longer feel a need to explain myself or to prove myself. It’s simply enough to understand that we’re currently living in a time where we can say more than many of us ever dared to before. We’re naming our troubles and shining light on them. (That’s distinctive from placing a spotlight on individuals to shame or expose them or violate their privacy. Some people cannot make this distinction, instead choosing to hide behind positive labels like ‘advocate’ and ‘good citizen’ to thinly veil their violations.)
There seem to be many more of us who are unashamedly acknowledging the struggles, even quietly, defining ourselves not by society’s harsh verdicts but by our resilience to overcome the struggles without masking them, and more importantly, without teaching our children to mask.
