The Shame of An Honest Mother

Clutch Your Pearls All You Want…Here’s the Truth About Motherhood.

I have a confession to make: I don’t know if I was meant to be a mom.

Last week, my partner and I were in the grocery store when a blood-curdling scream ripped through the air. Instinctively, I walked to the end of the aisle and peeked around the corner.

There, in the cereal aisle, a child lay on the floor, screaming and thrashing, red-faced. His mother stood nearby, hands gripping the cart like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth. Then our eyes met, I could see the deep exhaustion, the hopelessness, the desperation, the kind that seeps into your marrow after countless battles that never seem to end.

Then it happened. My chest tightened. My breath caught and my nervous system flipped into high alert. The fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder, every sound sharper, and I could feel heat flooding my face. My skin burned like it was on fire, sweat prickling across my forehead, rolling down my back. My hands started to shake. That’s what C-PTSD does. It hijacks your body, throwing you headfirst into the trenches that you thought you had climbed out of.

In that moment, I wasn’t just witnessing her struggle. I was reliving mine. My body remembered every meltdown I had carried my son through, every judgmental stare, every helpless moment of wanting to disappear. Time folded in on itself, and suddenly, I was her, standing in that aisle, drowning under the weight of motherhood and expectation, burning with shame and panic while trying to look composed and keep my patience. I flew back in time, over 20 years into the past. It is me in the cereal aisle, with my own son, his fists flying, his screams echoing through the store. I remember him grabbing the cart and pulling, the loud BANG as it flipped onto its side, slamming onto the floor, groceries spilling and rolling across the aisle. The stares of strangers pierced me as I scooped him up under my arm like a football, tears streaming down my face and bolted out of the store and into the car.

And then it was like the universe snapped its fingers. The memory dissolved, and I was yanked back through time, out of Sobeys, out of the chaos, back into the fluorescent aisle of today. My hands were still trembling, my chest tight, my face burning with leftover heat.

My heart was still racing as I walked back to my partner. He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m so glad we’re past that stage.” I nodded, but it wasn’t just relief that washed over me. It was the gut-punch realization that motherhood, for many of us, isn’t simply a soft-focus montage of maternal bliss and lullabies. It’s not Julie Andrews twirling through the hills with a song in her heart. It’s messier, louder, and far less musical, more like surviving chaos one meltdown at a time.

For some of us, motherhood is stress, anxiety, depression, and uncertainty. Its hypervigilance layered on sleepless nights. It’s panic sweats and a face on fire in the middle of a grocery store because your nervous system can’t tell the difference between then and now. It’s loving your kids so fiercely you’d walk through fire for them, while quietly wondering if you should just keep driving after you drop them off at school and never return to this life you signed up for.

And here’s the raw truth: I love my kids. Fiercely, deeply, always. But sometimes I still wonder if I was ever meant to be a mom.

There. I said it.

If you want to shame me for saying that, go ahead. Trust me, you are not the first. God forbid a mother be allowed to be human.

But let’s be real, if you’re clutching your pearls right now, the shame doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to a culture that worships perfect-presenting mothers and crucifies honest ones. It belongs to those who think silence is nobler than honesty, that stuffing down our truth somehow makes us better parents. And it belongs to a societal system that isolates mothers while applauding fathers for doing the bare minimum, and that leaves women carrying the mental load, the grocery bags, and the screaming child, alone.

You don’t get to pile shame onto a woman who is already carrying exhaustion, anxiety, and the weight of small humans who depend on her for everything. You don’t get to tell us that our humanity makes us unfit. You don’t get to call our honesty weakness when in reality it takes more strength to speak these words than to keep them buried.

So, if you feel the urge to shame me, or mothers like me, I suggest you sit with that discomfort. Because that shame is yours to unpack, not mine to carry.

To the mothers who are in the trenches of exhaustion, anxiety, or despair, please reach out. Talk to a counselor. Share your truth with someone safe. Find your Mom Village. Especially if you’re parenting a high-needs or neurodivergent child, don’t try to carry the weight alone.

And if no one has told you lately: you can do this. You are still here, and I believe in you.

And if you’ve ever whispered, I don’t know if I was meant to be a mom, welcome. You are my people. You are the heartbeat of this revolution. And together, we will not be shamed into silence ever again.

Mic. Dropped.

Resources for Mothers:

Alberta Health Services – Postpartum Depression

Support, treatment, and programs across Alberta, including group therapy and perinatal mental health services.👉 albertahealthservices.ca

MyHealth Alberta – Managing Postpartum Depression

Information on symptoms, treatment, and self-care strategies.👉 myhealth.alberta.ca

Families Matter (Calgary)

Free programs up to 24 months postpartum: in-home support, peer support, and groups.👉 familiesmatter.ca

Postpartum Support International – Canada (Alberta Volunteers)

Local Alberta contacts in Calgary, Edmonton, Coaldale. Peer support, groups, and therapist referrals.👉 postpartum.net/canada

Emergency & Crisis Lines (24/7 in Alberta):

• Mental Health Help Line: 1-877-303-2642

• Suicide Prevention Line: 1-866-332-2322

• Health Link: 811

• 211 Alberta: 211 (community & social services line)