What I Really Wish I Knew Before Motherhood

Hot tea, hard truths, and healing — For women in the wild middle of becoming.

Brew No. 1: What I Wish I Knew Before Motherhood

There are so many things I wish I knew before motherhood. And if I’m honest, I carry a bit of righteous rage toward the mothers and doctors who were never truly honest with me. No one gave me an ounce of struggle, regret, or reality.

All I got was:

“Congratulations! Everything is going to be amazing!”

“Being a mom is the best thing that’ll ever happen to you!”

And listen — it is amazing.

I love being a mom.

But it’s also disgusting.

And brutal.

And lonely.

And filled with loss.

And if I had even 20% more real information, I would’ve gone into it completely differently — and saved myself a lot of pain.

A few people did try to warn me

One doctor, Dr. Tran. One friend, Sarah Declerq.

They’d ask, “Are you sure you want to do this with him?”

But because I had such a fake, romanticized version of motherhood in my head, I didn’t really understand what they were saying.

I thought they were just being negative. I thought love would carry us through.

Now, I get it.

What they were really saying was: “This is going to break you open — and you need to be with someone who knows how to hold you when it does.”

So I’m here to tell you what I wish someone told me. Because if you’re even thinking about becoming a mom one day, you deserve more than filtered bump photos and vague “you got this” energy. You deserve to be prepared. You deserve to know what you’re signing up for. You deserve to walk into motherhood — or any life transformation — with your eyes wide open, and your power intact.

And the truth is: the world was not designed for us (women).

It’s especially not designed for mothers.

And if you don’t set yourself up really well, you’re going to pay for it.

So I am here to tell you the hell I crawled through to get to the “amazing” motherhood everyone sells you.

First of all: your old self is dead

She’s gone.

You won’t find her again no matter how hard you try.

Motherhood is a full-body identity death and rebirth — and it is shocking.

No one told me that.

No one said, “Hey babe, everything you are right now? There might not be space for it on the other side.”

They just said, “Congratulations.”

You don’t just “add a baby” to your life and keep going.

You become someone new.

And to do that, you have to grieve — your old self, your old life, your old rituals, your old freedom.

If you don’t make space for that grief, it shows up anyway. Through anger. Through anxiety. Through that deep ache you can’t name.

Imagine moving from LA to NYC.

You pack your life into a car, drive across the country, and you’re not turning back.

You don’t arrive in New York and keep comparing every street, restaurant, and weather report to LA. You adapt. You learn the rhythms of this new city.

Motherhood is the same. You’ve moved.

And yet so many of us keep turning around, wondering where our old life went.

No one tells us: you’re not going back. And that’s not a bad thing.

The most painful part of all this?

We live in a world that demonizes mothers.

We’re judged for looking tired, being scattered, caring “too much.”

We’re painted as overly emotional, boring, frumpy, chaotic.

Why?

Because it keeps us alone.

And people who are isolated don’t cause change.

If we started telling the truth about motherhood — not just to other mothers, but to everyone — real transformation could happen.

But that’s the point, right? To keep us silent. Because silence keeps systems intact.

But I’m done being silent.

And I think you are too.

(We’ll get into this more in an upcoming essay…)

My tip: Two tips really. First, take time to grieve your old self. Second, go into motherhood expecting to have a personal transformation and identity shift. Lean into the change. Make space to discover a new version of yourself — by doing this you focus on the possibilities, not the loss, and it makes it 100% easier.

Your partner makes or breaks the whole thing.

The man you have a child with will either hold you through the storm — or leave you drowning in it.

I believed mine would show up. He told me he would protect me.

He promised me love, safety, stability.

But here’s what I’ve learned the hard way:

• Most men today are not providers.

• Most are not protectors.

• They are lost. Addicted. Immature.

• And yet women still choose them, because we are conditioned to fall in love with potential, with promises.

But promises mean nothing in pregnancy. Only actions matter.

And when the actions don’t come?

You’re left pregnant and alone.

Vomiting in the bathroom while still doing the dishes.

Trying to survive postpartum without sleep, money, or emotional support.

You’re holding life — and no one is holding you.

Let me say this clearly:

Your partner’s behavior before, during, and after pregnancy will shape your entire motherhood experience.

Even his sperm matters.

Yes. Even his sperm

If your man isn’t healthy — emotionally, physically, spiritually — it shows up in his sperm.

And that shows up in your child.

DNA damage. Increased fat storage. Higher disease risk.

The science backs it. But honestly? You don’t even need science. You can feel it.

All this to say: choose wisely.

You’re not just choosing a co-parent. You’re choosing your child’s emotional blueprint. And possibly your own survival.

Pregnancy is hard.

Birth is painful.

Postpartum is devastating.

I posted the cute bump pics.

I looked glowy.

But behind the glow was one of the hardest experiences of my life.

Pregnancy is physically grueling. It’s a full-body medical risk. You’re drained, sore, and hormonal.

Birth is brutal. It’s bloody. It’s painful. It’s invasive. You will be touched. Prodded. Ripped.

(Yes — your vagina will likely tear. Do the math. Baby’s head vs. your opening. It’s not a fair fight. I’m not saying you will definitely have an episiotomy but 9 out of 10 women naturally tear & require stitches)

And postpartum?

You feel like a stranger in your own body. You don’t sleep. Your hormones are a rollercoaster.

You cry in the shower. You wonder where you went. You wonder if your spark will ever come back.

My tip: Do not have a baby for a man. Do not believe a man when he says he will be there for you and it will be 50/50. It is never 50/50 when it comes to motherhood. I am not “pro” this. It is just the sad reality. Only have a baby if you want to be a mother, you could (and are happy to) do it alone, and financially you are independent and secure.

Your career will change

Especially if you’re self-employed.

Work and motherhood exist in two completely different universes.

Business was designed by men — for men.

There is zero structure to support the realities of pregnancy, breastfeeding, sleep deprivation, or emotional labor. (Better in Europe, horrifying in USA).

As an entrepreneur, I thought I could just power through.

I used to work 12-hour days, no breaks. I could focus like a machine. Then I would power nap and DJ at night. ÇA VA!

But once I was pregnant, I had to take a large break after 2 hours of focused work.

Sometimes I’d feel amazing and inspired. Other days, I could barely lift my head.

By the third trimester? Forget it.

By the third trimester? Forget it. I DJ’d up until 37 weeks — but only short, easy gigs. If I stood for over an hour, I felt like I was going to die.

And postpartum? You’re in the trenches. Creative energy? Minimal.

Time to sit down and brainstorm your next big idea? Nonexistent.

You are bleeding, leaking, breastfeeding, and probably holding a baby 90% of your day.

This is not the season to grind. It’s the season to survive — and maybe gently begin to rebuild.

So here’s my best career advice, and I’m begging you to take it before you enter your motherhood era.

(And I know some of you are laughing, thinking, “Girl, I’ll never be a mom.” F.Y.I. — I said that too.)

1. If you run your own company, build a team that can run without you for at least 1.5 years.

   My biggest mistake. TR was notoriously a one-woman operation — every system, every idea, lived in my head.

   Before motherhood, create an autonomous team. Build a training program. Hire an ops person. Train your assistants and creatives. Set yourself up like you’re about to disappear. Because for a while, you will.

2. Save money — not for maternity leave, but for a rebirth buffer.

   I recommend saving enough for at least 6 months off, but looking back, I wish I had 18.

   Not because I didn’t want to work — but because I was not ready. Emotionally, physically, mentally.

   You deserve the space to become who you are now — not rush back to who you were.

3. Transition early.

   There’s a chance — a big one — that when you become a mother, you might not connect with your old career anymore.

   You might feel disconnected from the mission, the identity, the grind.

   You also might not want to work as many hours anymore, you might WANT time to be with your child (who would have thought? lol).

   Explore a shift. Build a new brand arm. Start developing something softer, slower, more you.

   Just because you change how you work or what your working towards doesn’t mean you’ve given up.

   The you (and the new career) that’s coming can be everything you want.

   So don’t wait.

   Start evolving now.

Bottom line: you will need to slow down.

You will need to rest.

You will change.

And you will need support. Period.

My tip: Build career in your 20’s with room for motherhood. Don’t exclude it. It’s like never looking at your bank account then wondering why you never have any money.

People disappear — but better ones show up

Unless you already have a strong (equally yolked) village, prepare to lose friends. People who don’t get it, don’t show up. People who aren’t empathetic, can’t hold space for you. And frankly? That’s a blessing. You don’t have time for flaky, self-centered, energy vampires anymore.

But the real ones? They’ll come. Other mothers. Women who’ve walked through fire. People who will hold your

baby so you can cry or shower or breathe.

And remember: your friends are your child’s environment too. Their energy matters. Their presence matters. Their choices matter. So choose wisely. (And let the wrong ones GO!)

My tip: LET THEM GO. My number one rule around this is that if something or someone is not showing up for you or a relationship isn’t working, that is the universe saving you. Trust it.

And now, the positives…

I almost didn’t include this part.

Because honestly, everyone talks about how amazing motherhood is — while glossing over the hell you crawl through to get there.

But when I really sat down and thought about what I love in motherhood, what’s actually magical about it — I realized no one talks about these things.

So here’s my unhinged, no-filter list of what makes motherhood sacred:

• You become unfuckwithable.

  No, seriously. You are now a bad bitch. You’ve walked through the fire and survived. Nothing — and I mean nothing — can shake you like it used to.

• Your clarity is next-level.

  Your intuition? On 10.

  And the best part is — you finally trust it.

  Because you have to. Your instincts keep your child safe, and in that process, they teach you to listen to your own inner knowing. It’s like the universe re-plugs you into yourself.

• You are a creator — and now, you have proof.

  If you’ve ever struggled with imposter syndrome… baby, it ends here.

  You created a human life.

  You sustained it. You nurtured it.

  You kept a baby alive, and somehow, you’re still brushing your teeth and showing up.

  That’s not just powerful — that’s divine.

• And yes, the obvious one — your child.

  They say a child’s laughter can heal the world.

  I never understood that until I had Aiko.

  Your child will bring you a joy that is hard to describe — not because they’re cute (though, of course, they are), but because they are pure.

  Untouched. Unbothered. Unburdened.

  They are the closest thing to Source I’ve ever seen.

  And in loving them, you remember: you started that way too.

  Full of wonder. Full of light. Full of life.

  That’s what makes children so powerful.

  They remind you that healing is possible.

  That you can set down what isn’t yours.

  That you can return home to yourself.

TLDR

I wish someone told me all this.

I wish I knew that I wasn’t broken — I was becoming.

That I wasn’t failing — I was transitioning.

That motherhood wasn’t going to ruin my life — it was going to force me to rebuild it on stronger ground.

So now I’m telling you.

If you’re reading this and you’re not yet a mother, or you’re standing at the edge of motherhood — take your time.

Set yourself up.

Ask deeper questions.

Don’t just fall for the fantasy. Prepare for the reality.

And if you’re already in it?

Welcome. You’re not alone. You never were.

Let’s rebuild together.