Good Enough.

An Ode to Imperfect Parenting.

People come to therapy and talk about their moms. A lot. It may sound like a Freudian cliché, but it’s true. And it’s not surprising. A mother’s influence is profound. Her presence, her absence, her role—whatever shape it takes—leaves a mark. Mothers are part of the mysterious, magical process of becoming who we are.

As a mom, that truth—the power I hold—sometimes terrifies me.

My children are first learning to see themselves as they are mirrored by me. My voice will become their internal self-talk. They learn experientially in our home what love looks, sounds, and feels like. As a parent, I think carefully about the “normal” I’m creating. Our “status quo” is what my children will continue to seek and likely go on to repeat in later relationships. As humans, we gravitate to what is known and are pulled to the familiar (even when it’s not best for us).

My identity as a mother was conceived the day I found out I was carrying three heartbeats. The day my twins were born, a new part of me was born too. For seven short and long years, I’ve been stumbling, learning, growing—trying to figure out how to parent. My children are my teachers. And this is the most joyous, harrowing, heart-wrenching, and miraculous journey I’ve ever known. Without question, being a mom is the hardest and best thing I’ve ever done.

The most honest Mother’s Day card for me would say: World’s Most Imperfect Mom. Motherhood, like marriage, has a way of reflecting back the less-than-stellar parts of myself—flaws I have to face, understand, and work to change. That doesn’t make me a bad parent. It makes me human.

My foray into motherhood was far from perfect. The start to the mother-child bond I share with my babies was the stuff of nightmares, not dreams. But, that’s life. In the end, it’s not about what happens to us—it’s about what we do with it. I get eighteen years with my children under my roof. 6570 days, many of which have already slipped through my fingers. I do my best to bring intention to the moments I’ve been given. Each one is an opportunity. To love or hurt (and always to teach).

In every relationship—professional and personal—I make mistakes. Regularly. I’ve come to see this not as a personal failure, but as an inevitable part of being in connection with others. In psychology, we call these moments “ruptures.” What matters most is not that I always get it right. What matters is what I do when I don’t. Because I can’t always get it right.

Trust isn’t built through perfection—it’s deepened through repair. When I fall short, I want my children to see me take responsibility with humility. I want them to hear the tone I use with myself—compassionate, not critical. I apologize. Then, I try to do better. I want them to know that healing takes more than words; it takes changed behavior. We love through action.

Graduate school gave me a foundation in human development, neuroscience, behavior, and emotion. I draw on that knowledge daily in the trenches of parenting. Understanding what’s happening in my children’s brains—and remembering that they’re not miniature adults—helps me meet them with more empathy. That same knowledge sometimes helps me meet myself with more grace, too.

One of the most powerful concepts I return to—both as a clinician and as a mother—is the “good enough mother.” Coined by British psychoanalyst D.W. Winnicott, this idea recognizes that no parent can be perfect—and that’s not just okay, it’s necessary. Flawed caregiving, when paired with love and repair, fosters healthy development. Children grow through challenge, not coddling.

As a new therapist, Winnicott’s work helped me realize that I didn’t need to be attuned 100% of the time to help someone heal. I didn’t need to always say the “right” thing. My presence was more important than my performance. Often, my stumbles created space for richer connection. They were opportunities for clients to practice navigating conflict and having hard conversations. When we worked through what went wrong together, our therapeutic relationship grew stronger. That lesson echoes in my home.

I aim to be a “good enough” psychologist—and a “good enough” mom.

A “good enough” parent provides a safe, loving environment while allowing space for frustration and disappointment. They don’t smooth every bump or shield their child from every hurt. They let life happen, while staying close. “Good enough” isn’t an excuse for disengagement or neglect. It’s an intentional, present, responsible way of loving, with full awareness that we will still mess up. “Good enough” parents show up in their imperfection, trusting that their children can thrive not in spite of that, but through it. That’s where resilience is built.

There is a weight to the yoke of motherhood unlike anything else I’ve known. As a clinician, I know what it is to carry life-and-death responsibility. Sometimes the primary purpose of my directives and decisions is to keep people alive. I’ve spent many an hour sitting in an ER with suicidal and homicidal patients and their families. It’s heavy. But the duty I hold as a parent? It’s everything.

Patients often ask me, “Am I messing up my kids?” At times, I share this same fear as a parent. In those moments I remind myself of the reassurance I give others: The people whose relationships have a severely damaging impact on their child’s psyche usually aren’t concerned with this question. I’ll keep doing my best and let that be enough. After all, this is what I am trying to teach my kids. They will internalize how I treat them, but they will internalize how I treat myself too.

One day, I hope each of my children finds an excellent therapist. (Everyone should have one.) In their therapy, I have no doubt my kids will talk about their mom. Periodically, I think about what I hope they’ll be able to say about me, their childhood, and our family. I’m spurred to live and love them accordingly.

Motherhood is a forever job. As my children grow, they won’t need me less—they’ll need me differently. Until my last breath, I’ll be their mother. And until then, I’ll keep showing up in all my blazing humanity. Like my clients, and everyone else in my life, my kids don’t need perfection. They need presence.

And I trust, in the deepest place I know, that what will ultimately shape and sustain them is the same thing that’s transformed me: radical, extravagant grace.

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