Good Enough.
An Ode to Imperfect Parenting
People come to therapy and talk about their moms. A lot. It may sound like a Freudian cliche, but it’s true. It also isn’t a big surprise. The impact that a mother has on the life of a child is profound. Our mothers are a part of the mysterious, magical process of becoming who we are. Their presence, their absence, their place—whatever it is—marks us.
As a mom, this 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 and sounds like. As a parent, I think carefully about the “normal” I’m creating. It’s 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 my body was carrying three heartbeats. The day my twins were born, a new part of me was too. For five long and short years, I’ve been trying to figure out parenthood. My children are my teachers. I’m on a lifelong joyous, harrowing, heartwrenching, and amazing journey. By far, being a mom is the best, hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The most appropriate Mother’s Day card for me would read: “World’s Most Imperfect Mom.” For me, motherhood has been like marriage—it has refracted some less-than-stellar parts of myself that I must continually step back, understand, and address. I know I’m not alone in this. It doesn’t make me a bad parent; it’s simply a sign I’m 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 my relationships—personal and professional—I make mistakes. Frequently. I’ve learned to accept this as an interpersonal inevitability, not my own failing. In psychology, we refer to these relational misfires as “ruptures.” As a mom, what is most important is not that I always get it right. It’s how I respond when I don’t. (Because I can’t.) What deepens trust is not perfection but our ability to repair disruptions and disconnection when they occur. I want my children to see me take ownership for my mistakes with contrite humility. When I fall short, I want them to hear me talk to myself with compassion, not criticism. I apologize. Then, I try to show up differently. I want my kids to understand that words are the first step but we only restore our relationships through changed behavior. Healing takes action, not easy talk.
In graduate school, I spent six years learning about human development, neuroscience, emotion, behavior, and personality formation. I often draw on my academic foundation in the trenches as a mom. Appreciating what is happening in my children’s brains and remembering that they are not miniature adults helps me respond with empathy. Some of my theoretical understanding helps me respond to myself with more kindness, too.
Perhaps one of the most powerful concepts that helps me as a psychologist and a parent is the concept of the “good enough mother.” This concept was coined by British psychoanalyst and pediatrician D.W. Winnicott in the mid-20th century. It describes a parenting approach that recognizes that no parent can be perfect and that a certain degree of flawed caregiver humanity is not only acceptable but necessary for healthy child development.
As a novice clinician, Winnicott’s work helped me understand that my patients don’t need me to always be attuned 100% of the time for them to derive benefit from our work. This was a comfort when I’d sit in sessions as a baby therapist, sometimes unsure of the “right” thing to do. I figured out quickly that my presence was more important than trying to come up with some brilliant thing to say. Being mattered more than doing. I recognized that my blunders actually created powerful opportunities for my patients to practice having hard conversations. As individuals grew more adept at processing challenges with me, they were able to translate these skills into life outside my office walls. When we worked through what went wrong, our relationship was stronger on the other side too.
My aim is to be a “good enough” psychologist. I also do my best to be a “good enough” mom. “Good enough” parents provide a safe and loving environment while allowing their children to experience frustration and disappointment. The “good enough” parent’s aim is not to placate, please, or make the world as easy as possible. Instead, they help children learn how to respond to life’s inevitable upsets. “Good enough” parenting isn’t a laissez-faire, lazy, “anything goes” approach. It’s not a pass for poor parental behavior or neglect. “Good enough” parents take responsibility. They’re intentional. “Good enough” parents commit to being present and dialed into their child’s needs. They’re also realistic. “Good enough” parents understand mistakes will be made. Still, they trust that their children can still thrive and develop resilience in and through their imperfect love.
There is a weight to the yoke of motherhood that is unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. 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.
Someday I hope each of my children finds an outstanding psychologist. (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.
Being a mom is a 24/7 always-on job. As they get older, my kids won’t need me less, they’ll just need me differently. I’ll be a mother until the day I die. Until then, I’ll keep showing up in my blazing humanity. Like my patients (and everyone else in my life), my kids need my presence, not my perfection. I trust in a deep place that what will ultimately transform my children is what has changed me—radical, extravagant grace.
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