Inhala, Exhala

Motherhood is a spectrum, especially with the wide range of emotions you can experience in an hour alone. With all that in mind, there’s nothing quite like the ‘mommy police.’

Unsolicited advice is universal in parenthood, particularly in a society that infantilizes young adults while expecting them to be fully grown. It’s annoying, predictable, and utterly exhausting.

What frustrates me most is the assumption that because I’m young, I don’t know what I’m doing. I welcome advice when I ask for it, but the assumption that I’m clueless simply due to my age is infuriating. I research, I prepare, and when I knew I was having a baby, I absorbed everything I could to avoid starting from zero. So, when people discredit the effort I’ve made, believing their way is better, it gets under my skin.

Having children or having been where I am doesn’t mean much to me. Your experience doesn’t have to be my reality. You may have been a parent, but that doesn’t automatically mean you did it well or that you have the right to invalidate mine.

I’ve had to remind myself that no one can make me feel inferior without my consent—especially now when I’m four months postpartum, still dealing with the fragility of my mental health and body. It’s a surreal duality—being both the participant and the spectator of my own emotions.

Grounding myself has been critical, especially with my recent move to another country. I anticipated the challenges, but even with preparation, I feel blindsided. It’s like studying for an exam and then failing miserably. I’ve spent the past week crying in the shower, overwhelmed by sensitivities I thought I’d overcome. The last thing I want is to be around people who make me feel like I can’t breathe. It’s as if I’m back in survival mode, undoing years of therapeutic work.

The car accident on the way to Harare during said move didn’t help. As the car spun off the road, my only instinct was to shield my daughter. I wasn’t concerned about surviving myself, just her. She would still have her dad, her aunts, and a life full of love. It was my first accident, and to be so close to the worst outcome felt unreal. We were fortunate no one was seriously injured, though I walked away with a three-day migraine from hitting my head.

What frustrated me was the aftermath. Everyone was processing their trauma, but no one seemed to understand why my four-month-old didn’t want to be separated from me. The chaos hadn’t registered for them. Instead, they blamed me for making her too attached, as if the accident hadn’t affected her at all. All the progress toward her independence was undone in seconds, and I’ve since been bombarded with advice on what I should do.

It’s driving me insane. I know my daughter picks up on my energy, which is why I try so hard to regulate my emotions. I feel what I need to feel and then let it go because the last thing I want is to pass my distress onto her. But the dismissiveness from others—people who should know better—has me questioning whether they’ll ever allow her the grace they give themselves. It’s frustrating when older generations refuse to see children as human beings with their own needs, emotions, and responses to trauma.

To say I become a mama bear when defending my baby doesn’t even scratch the surface. The other night, I had to physically remove myself from a situation because I nearly lost it after an unnecessary comment. I’ve always been protective of the people I love, but when it comes to my child? There are no words.

All I can do is breathe—inhala y exhala—and remind myself that I’m doing my best (thank you to my good sis’ podcast, Crystal’s Cameo, episode 8, 16:30). My daughter doesn’t need perfection; she needs love, protection, and understanding. And despite what anyone else says, that’s exactly what I’m giving her.

At the end of the day, motherhood isn’t about following everyone else’s rules or seeking approval. It’s about tuning out the noise and trusting that I know what’s best for my child. Just because someone else has been a parent doesn’t mean they did it well, and their experience doesn’t define mine. What matters is that my daughter feels safe, loved, and understood. As long as she has that, I know I’m doing my job right.

Look. It is messy, unpredictable, and challenging, but it’s also a journey uniquely my own. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for how I walk it. And how that makes me look? None of my concern. You can’t make ‘em all happy.