We put so much pressure on ourselves to do it all. For me, the realization and acceptance of the fact that I can’t be everything to everyone has been liberating. I know now that if I take the time and care to make sure I am at my best, I am able to be there for my family in an even more powerful and connected way. It is hard to let go and put yourself first when you are a mom, but the sooner you can give yourself a little space to breathe and recharge, the better off you will be. —Jessica Simpson, Guest Editor, the Honesty Issue

It’s 4:13 on a Friday afternoon, and I’m crouching on the tile floor behind my kitchen counter, the tea kettle boiling a few feet above my head, and one thought is running through my mind: Please don’t let my daughter find me back here.

My daughter, four years old, is passing through the kitchen on her way from the playroom to the hallway with her babysitter. They are going to check on my other daughter, one year old, who is napping. The four-year-old is dressed in a tutu and plastic high heels, and the sound of her casual, high-pitched banter causes my heart to squeeze. And yet my response when I heard her heeled clomping into the kitchen is to crouch low and flee out of sight.

The fact that it is 4:13 p.m. on a Friday means that I have 47 minutes of childcare remaining in my day—47 minutes left in the week to spend how I will: finishing up the writing I’ve been working on all week, cracking open the bound draft of the book I’ve promised to review for a fellow author, doing some quick office-floor yoga—or doing none of the above. Perhaps simply spending these last few minutes doing nothing more than drinking this tea in the kettle that is whistling above my head and simply relishing some quiet and peace and freedom to think. In 47 minutes I will say goodnight to my nanny, and I will scoop up my two daughters and once more take up the reins of mommying and dinner cooking and bath-time singing and bedtime reading and closet-monster exorcisms and so on.

Hence why I’m hiding in this squatting position, thinking: Please don’t let her find me. And then a second thought immediately follows on its heels: I am the worst mother in the world.

Years ago, at a baby shower for a friend, one of the older women in attendance, a mother whose children had grown into adulthood, gifted the expectant mother with a copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s book Gift From the Sea, along with the insistent warning that my friend needed to remember to “fill her own vessel first.” The woman delivered the advice with a stony face and a stern voice, as if my friend were about to take off for an arduous journey on which she might very likely lose sight of everything around her, including—and especially—herself.

I nodded, all sage and subdued smiles, acting as though I’d understood this exhortation, but inwardly I was saying to myself, “Let’s take it easy here—it’s not like this woman is taking off for a solo summit of Everest! She’s taking off—destination: Motherhood! She’s going to have an adorable, squishy baby! She wants this, she’s excited! We’re all excited for her! This is going to be the best thing ever!”

A few years later I, too, became a mom. My daughter was rosy and healthy and happy, and I loved her instantaneously and intensely. A few years after that, I became a mother again to a second healthy, beautiful baby girl. I loved being a mom. I adored my girls. I also experienced a fatigue the likes of which I had not known possible—fatigue that felt simultaneously physical, mental, and emotional, all at the same time. Anxiety was suddenly a constant companion. Anxiety that kept me awake between the midnight and 3 a.m. feedings, which just felt cruel and pointless, given how badly I needed that precious sleep. I forgot words midsentence (a problem for a woman whose job is largely to finish sentences). I found that an afternoon could stretch to the length of an eternity. I realized that things that were challenging could also be really boring.

I realized that some of the women in my life really, really love the day-to-day work of being a mom. It’s not bogus, and it’s not for Instagram or for bragging rights at Mommy and Me Playgroup. Some women truly love babies, love nothing more than snuggling and smelling their newborns for hours on end on the couch without feeling the need to leave the house. Some women love toddlers and have an endless tolerance for impromptu sing-alongs and circular rounds of car-ride questions that have no satisfying answers or resolution. Some women in my life have told me that they love snow days because it means arts and crafts at home and pancakes made in the shape of snowmen. (Some men, like my husband, are like that too.)

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