Me… I… My Life.
Hmm, where do I even begin? What’s the best way to open up about my parenting journey, a journey that’s as unique as it is emotional? I suppose it all starts with my mom.

My mom is a beautiful woman, radiating energy and life. Growing up, she lived with so much freedom, surrounded by her parents and five siblings who adored her beyond measure. They showered her with love, wrapped her in warmth, and gave her the kind of carefree life that many only dream of.

Looking back, my grandparents were amazing. They gave her everything she could have wanted—freedom, love, adventure—but somehow, in all that, they didn’t teach her to speak her truth, to voice her own opinions. Was that a mistake? I don’t know. Parenting is so personal, so different for everyone. Who’s to say what’s right?

But when my mom married my dad, everything shifted. She went from living in an open, unrestricted world to stepping into the chaos of a joint family, where the rules felt like they were written in stone. She thought a joint family meant more love, more support. But she quickly realized that it meant more chaos, more noise, more challenges. Life didn’t get easier, it got harder. Yet, even in the face of all this change and difficulty, one thing remained constant—her love.

Somehow, no matter how much life threw at her, she found a way to love my dad unconditionally. Even when things got tough, there was always love, always this unwavering commitment.

A few years later, she welcomed my older sister—a whirlwind of energy who instantly became the center of my mom’s world. She was a lot—a bundle of non-stop energy that could light up any room. But my mom handled it all. Some days, she was her release, her outlet to let go of the world’s weight. But more often, she was the reason for my mom’s smile. She was the joy in the chaos, the love in the madness.

Then, six years later, I arrived—a chubby little ball of love, the one everyone doted on. I was the baby, the one who could do no wrong, the one who had my mom wrapped around my finger. I was her pride, her joy, the apple of her eye. And even though I probably didn’t deserve it, I knew she loved me more than anything in the world.

Not long after me, my younger sister came along. A cheeky little one, always knowing how to get her way, turning every moment into an opportunity to charm and sway. She had a way of getting what she wanted without ever needing to ask. And somehow, through it all, my mom didn’t flinch. She kept her composure, kept the love flowing, even as her children became more different from each other by the day.

Here’s the thing: our mom stayed the same. Through all the highs and lows, through the chaos and the calm, she was always consistent. Always loving. Always strong. But us? We were three completely different kids, with different needs, different personalities, different approaches to life. And yet, my mom managed to raise each one of us, with all our differences, in her own, extraordinary way.

How did she do it? How did she manage to give each of us exactly what we needed, even though we were worlds apart? I don’t have the answers. But what I do know is this: my mom was FULLYMOMMED—through and through. She is the heartbeat of our family, constantly adjusting, growing, and loving us in ways that only she could.