The Beautiful, Chaotic Gift of Motherhood

In just a few days, my daughter Kate will turn 25, and my son Alex will turn 22. A quarter of a century and more than two decades of being their mom. That fact alone stops me in my tracks. I’ve been a mother for most of my adult life—and what a wild, messy, beautiful ride it’s been.

If I’m being honest, motherhood wasn’t always magical. Some days, I hated it. I craved silence. I longed for peace. I just wanted to sit down, drink something warm while it was still warm, and maybe—just maybe—watch a full episode of Oprah. But instead, I’d find Alex climbing on my head like a baby koala while Kate narrated an elaborate game she’d invented with Barbies, markers, and cardboard.

There were years when it felt like I was always giving—giving rides, giving snacks, giving advice, giving myself away. I was managing a marriage, a career, a house, and two tiny humans who seemed to need something every five minutes. The lines between professional Deneen and mom Deneen were always blurry. I’d go from hosting a meeting to hosting a meltdown, and back again before dinner.

And I’ve always been very clear with them—I was not the mom who had every color of hair bow, nor did I have neatly labeled bins of Legos sorted by shape and size. Pinterest wasn’t even a thought. I was the mom who asked too many questions. The mom who made them talk about their feelings. I carried both of them (literally) into their first experiences with therapy—not because anything was broken, but because I wanted them to have a toolkit to reach for when life got tough. Emotional literacy. Self-awareness. Words for what they were carrying. Those things mattered to me more than coordinated outfits or themed birthday parties.

There were also moments that broke my heart. Mean kids. Disappointments. The moments I couldn’t fix. When your child is hurting, you hurt in ways you never thought possible. I’d put on a brave face, but later I’d cry in the shower or the car or into a pillow, wondering how to make the world kinder for them.

And yet, even in the hardest moments, there was magic. There was growth. There was this indescribable, bone-deep love that made all of it—the exhaustion, the worry, the absurdity—worth it.

Now, I look at Kate and Alex and marvel. They are smart, kind, thoughtful, resilient humans. They have become people I love not just because they’re mine, but because they’re genuinely wonderful. Somehow, in all those messy, noisy, overwhelming years, something truly beautiful took root.

Motherhood didn’t just shape them—it shaped me. It taught me how to be strong when I felt weak. How to laugh when I wanted to scream. How to keep showing up, day after day, imperfect but all in.

To Kate and Alex: thank you for letting me be your mom. Thank you for the chaos and the cuddles, the cart crashes and the stitches, the tears and the triumphs. You made my life fuller, funnier, and far more meaningful than I could have imagined.

As we approach Mother’s Day, I want to take a moment to honor all the mothers out there—whether you’re in the thick of toddler tantrums, navigating the teenage maze, or learning how to let go as your babies become adults. I see you. I celebrate you. Motherhood is not one-size-fits-all. It’s messy and marvelous, painful and powerful. It’s showing up when you’re tired, loving hard when it’s hard, and finding strength you didn’t know you had. Whether you’re a biological mom, a bonus mom, a chosen mom, or a mother figure—your presence matters more than you know. You are the heartbeat of your home, the keeper of traditions, the soft place to land. And on this day, and every day, you deserve to be seen, celebrated, and deeply appreciated.