To the Parent Who’s Stressing About Being Imperfect

“Your greatest contribution to the universe may not be something you do, but someone you raise.” ~Unknown

Have you ever heard the saying, “Mama knows best” or “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Honestly, who decided that moms should know everything and that the entire emotional balance of the home rests solely on their shoulders? Isn’t Mom a human too? A beautiful soul navigating this life, trying to figure things out just like everyone else? How is it fair that we pile all the pressure onto this one person—the keeper of the schedules, the task doer, the tender space for everyone to fall?

It’s no wonder the pressure on moms today is sky-high. We carry expectations that are impossible to meet—being nurturing yet productive, selfless yet balanced. And let’s not forget about dads, who often get a bad rap for not doing things “as well as mom.”

We need to take a step back. Both parents are human. They come into parenting with their own limiting beliefs, inner critics, and childhood wounds. Being a parent doesn’t mean you automatically know what you’re doing.

I’ll never forget the drive home from the hospital with my first son. I was in the backseat, staring at this tiny human, thinking, “They’re really letting us take him home?”

It hit me, sitting in that glider in his nursery a few weeks later, that I had no idea what I was doing. I tried reading all the books, hoping the answers were tucked in there somewhere. But even after reading the same chapter of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child at least thirty times, I still felt lost.

So, I did what felt natural—I called my mom. Surely, she had the answers. But all she said was, “This too shall pass.” At the time, her words made me angry. I didn’t have time for things to pass; I needed solutions. Yet, over the years, I’ve come to realize that she didn’t have all the answers either. None of us do.

This journey of figuring it out—of reading books, blogs, and consulting my mom—lasted for many years. I wanted so badly to be a good mom. I was a good mom. I loved my kids deeply, left little notes in their lunch boxes, tucked them in at night, and kept them safe with helmets and seatbelts. But as he grew, so did the struggles, and often, so did my fear.

When my son was in elementary school, he began struggling terribly. At first, I thought maybe he just needed a little extra encouragement. But when he would cry at homework or tear up on our way to school, I knew it was deeper. He would rush through his work just so he could turn in his tests at the same time as the other “smarter” kids. School was overwhelming for him, and it was crushing me to watch.

Eventually, he was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia, and a wave of conflicting emotions washed over me. I was relieved to know he had support now, but the meetings, the individualized education programs, the tutoring—all of it weighed on me.

Sitting in those meetings with teachers and specialists, I’d feel a tightness in my chest and tears spilling over. I wanted him to have an easier path, but I was realizing that I couldn’t just “fix” it. I was the mother, the one who was supposed to protect him, but I was helpless in the face of these challenges he would have to navigate on his own. My heart ached for him, and I often felt ashamed of my own emotional unraveling.

Reflecting back, I see how much of those tears were for him—and for me. I was spread too thin. Work was overwhelming, my marriage was strained, and I had little left to give. My life felt like a juggling act, and each new challenge threatened to tip the balance. The layers of fear, responsibility, and love were always there, piling up, and I felt the weight of every single one.

And then came the teenage years. Those years where the stakes felt higher, where choices carried more weight, and where my fear around his decisions—who he spent time with, the roads he might choose—grew even stronger.

I remember one day, standing in the garage in an argument with him. The tension was thick, and we were both yelling—my fear bursting out as anger. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about; it’s a blur. But the shame and guilt afterward were so clear.

The truth is, every stage of my son’s life brought forward a new version of myself—a woman, a mother, learning as she went, trying her best to balance it all. My own fear of failure, of not being enough, would surface in unexpected ways. But somewhere along the journey, I realized that my fears and my need for control were driving a wedge between us. And the more I tried to grip tightly, the more I lost sight of the tender love and wonder I wanted to bring into our relationship.

So, I started working on myself. I went to therapy and hired a coach—not because I was broken, but because I knew I wasn’t showing up as the parent, or the person, I wanted to be.

Through my healing journey, I learned that my desire to control was rooted in fear—a fear that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, he would somehow slip through the cracks. I feared for his future, that he’d face pain or hardship. But as I began to peel back those layers, I started to see that my fear wasn’t protecting him; it was keeping me from fully loving and trusting him.

As I did this inner work, something shifted. My approach softened. I wasn’t as reactive or rigid. I found that I could set boundaries from a place of love instead of fear, listen without rushing to fix, and let him make his own choices.

I became less focused on making sure everything was perfect and more focused on simply being there. I was less afraid, more open—and, truth be told, I began to enjoy life more. I found joy in the little things again, the mundane moments I used to take for granted. And he noticed.

My children began to see me differently. They told me I was more patient, kinder, and even more fun. This loop of healing—me working on myself, allowing my own growth to ripple into how I showed up for them—created a connection that only grew stronger. The more I invested in myself, the more balanced I felt, and the deeper my love for them became.

So, what about that old saying, “If mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy”? Perhaps instead we should say, “No one is happy all the time, but if mom is struggling, she needs time and space to address her own issues, and everyone in the house will benefit.” The same goes for Dad. If he’s checked out, he needs to come back to this one life we’re given. Both parents need to heal, grow, and show up for themselves so they can be there fully for their kids.

Just like the thermostat in your home, if things are too hot or too cold, you adjust it to find comfort. The same goes for parenting. When we take the time to work on ourselves, we create the right environment—not perfect, but balanced and loving—for our children to thrive.

It’s never too late to start. Let’s embark on this healing journey together so we can show up as the best parents we can be—not because we have all the answers, but because we’re willing to do the work, grow, and love along the way.

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About Molly Rubesh

Molly Rubesh is a life coach, author, and blended mom of four, dedicated to helping families create peace and balance at home. Bringing a compassionate and practical approach to her coaching, she empowers parents to break free from stress cycles, connect deeply with their children, and build lasting harmony within their families. Download her free guide, 5 Ways to Heal Yourself and Create Peace in Your Home, and follow along on Instagram for daily inspiration here.

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The Most Important Pieces of My Cancer Coping Plan

“Health is the greatest possession. Contentment is the greatest treasure. Confidence is the greatest friend.”  ~Lao Tzu

When dealing with a serious health issue or life challenge, we can choose to navigate through it to the light or bury ourselves in its darkness. While it’s not always easy to find the light, it’s a much easier place to survive in and, in the long run, is much healthier. This way of being has helped me on my recent health journeys.

Twice in the past twenty-three years, I have received the news of a breast cancer diagnosis. Both incidences were completely different and unrelated. This is my story, and how looking for the light is so important in the face of adversity.

My first cancer diagnosis was in 2001 when I was forty-seven, received days before the horrific events of 9/11.

DCIS, an early form of breast cancer, was discovered through my annual mammogram. I was given the choice to have a lumpectomy and radiation or a mastectomy and reconstruction. I opted for the latter because I didn’t want to spend subsequent days, months, and years worrying about a possible recurrence. Plus, back then, radiation was more dangerous and not as refined and focused as it is today.

At the time, I was living in a small town in Florida and decided to travel to California for the best doctor to treat this type of cancer. It wasn’t easy being separated from my three children under the age of eighteen. In the end, it was the right choice and eventually led to a subsequent move to California, the place of my dreams. So sometimes going through difficult challenges can lead to better things.

After I had surgery, my husband Simon and I stayed in California for two weeks before returning home to Florida. I slowly got used to my new body’s landscape since my diagnosis and diligently continued to go for my annual mammograms, watching my only breast being squished between those two sheets of glass.

Tears would trickle down my face, triggered by the loss of the breast that fed my three children. During my meditations, I expressed gratitude for my life and remaining breast.

I tried to bring the light into my life whenever possible by engaging in self-care activities. I surrounded myself with loving and thoughtful people and tried to disconnect from those who had less hopeful attitudes.

Five years later, during a routine blood test, I found out that I had multiple myeloma, a rare type of blood cancer affecting the plasma cells. In short, it turns healthy cells into unhealthy ones.

I had no symptoms at the time, but was told that I’d need bloodwork every three months to make sure that the disease did not progress, and that down the road there was a chance I would need to undergo treatment for this incurable type of blood cancer.

The fear of enduring another cancer overcame me, and I researched the best integrative physicians in Los Angeles to help me navigate this new terrain. For eighteen years my myeloma was what was called “smoldering” because I had no symptoms, but my blood test continued to show high protein levels—a sign that the disease was present.

Each day I swallowed handfuls of vitamins to ward off any further disease progression. I met and consulted with the best doctors and researchers at the Mayo Clinic and Cedar Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. I was told that everybody’s case was different, but at one point treatment would be unavoidable.

My second breast cancer diagnosis came in 2024, not long before celebrating my seventieth birthday. I was feeling fine, and it was still a few months before my scheduled annual mammogram when I noticed that my right nipple had inverted.

A mammogram, biopsy, and MRI revealed lobular breast cancer, which is more aggressive than DCIS. I ended up having another mastectomy and reconstruction. Much to my chagrin, I also needed radiation. Thankfully, because my Onco Type DX Score—a score given from 0 to 100 indicating the likelihood of breast cancer returning—was low at only 9, I did not need chemotherapy.

I am not generally a fearful person, although I am prone to depression and holding feelings in. I continued to try to keep clear of those who were living more in the light than in the dark because it triggered feelings of depression. The entire experience triggered reminders of my first breast cancer experience, coupled with increasing fear and sadness.

Once again, I had to get used to my new personal physical landscape of implants taking the place of my real breasts. Much had evolved surgically in the twenty-three years since my last surgery, and the recovery seemed easier.

The radiation, however, took a lot out of me. In addition to shrink-wrapping my newly constructed breast, I encountered sheer exhaustion during the six weeks of radiation five days a week.

Unfortunately, during my hospitalization for this second mastectomy and reconstruction, my hemoglobin dropped significantly. This signaled to my doctors that my myeloma might be becoming active.

They scheduled a bone marrow biopsy and found that 90% of my marrow had cancer cells. This was shocking news. My oncologist had been suggesting treatment to ward off progression, but I declined and said that I would rather wait until I was symptomatic.

He had been very patient with me wanting to do it my way, combining Eastern and Western medicine, mainly because he knew that each case was different, and he honored my intuition about my body. However, he did tell me that there would be a time when he would say that I had no choice but to begin treatment, and unfortunately, it had arrived. He suggested I heal from my surgery before beginning.

The hemoglobin drop made me feel very uncharacteristically tired. I had been an active person, hiking and working out with a trainer, so having no energy was very difficult for me, plus being active is also a way to fend off depression.

I’d always been an advocate of listening to my body, and now I felt that my body was telling me that it was time for treatment that involved weekly injections at the hospital and taking a handful of medications at home to fend off any side effects.

I never really understood the concept of “chemo brain” until now, but I truly feel I cannot think clearly. It challenges my lifelong passion for writing and creating.

I’ve decided to continue to listen to my body—to rest when it asks to rest and move when it’s time to move.

During the course of my three cancers, I went from being mad at my body for putting me through all of this to respecting the temple that has kept me alive. I’ve accepted that I cannot be as productive, and that spending a day with one or all of my six grandchildren was more healing than writing any article or a book.

All in all, my healing had many layers—emotional, psychological, and physical. Compounding that with the fact that I was to live with an incurable cancer that would probably need treatment for the rest of my life, I was left feeling quite depressed.

I decided I could not manage alone without the assistance of an antidepressant, which would just keep my head above water. I wanted to thrive and just needed that little bit of support.

I maintained my sanity by deferring to self-care modalities, many of which I used in my younger years and during challenging times in my life, such as writing, meditation, listening to music, exercising, and connecting with friends.

There’s one song that inspired my way of being, and that was Gloria Gaynor’s song, “I Will Survive.” The lyrics became my mantra.

Cancer survivors can wear many faces. We might have a public face, and we might have a private face. True healing and recovery depend on the support of loved ones and trusted medical professionals.

My physicians were very caring and kind, and I’ll never forget the words of my first oncologist when he gave me my diagnosis: “If this experience doesn’t rivet you, nothing will. You’ll never look at life in the same way.” He was right.

My oncologist’s words continue to echo in my mind. From a physical standpoint, I can acknowledge and accept that my body will never look and feel the same. My daily glances in the mirror are a constant reminder of my journey. In spite of looking a little better when I’m dressed, when I’m unclothed, there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve had breast cancer—I have the scars to prove it.

I can hide under my clothing, my covers, or in my closet, but in the shower and during lovemaking, I cannot hide, so I’ve taught myself to accept my newly transformed body.

People say that scars give us character, and I’ve worked hard to convince myself of this supposed truth. I tell myself that the scars don’t really matter because the important thing is that I’ve survived, even though the moment I heard my doctor’s words, all I wanted to do was hide.

As survivors, we go through many mood changes, but in the end, I believe in the old adage, “From all bad comes good.” I’m cognizant of the importance of being mindful of life’s priorities.

As mentioned earlier, I’ve come to realize that my writing grounds me, makes me happy, and helps me survive. I also know that I need to surround myself with people who make me feel good about myself and who provide healing energy.

I suppose this is what intuitively happens when you come face-to-face with your own mortality—you try not to allow people into your life who drain you of the vital life force that is essential for your own healing. For me, doing so made me feel that I was shoring up my spirit’s natural defense mechanisms.

I’d always been a productive person, and my first cancer diagnosis brought with it a new sense of urgency to continue my writing practice and to share my words and passions with the universe.

While working on my latest memoir, I made a point of trying to relax and remind myself not to overdo it. I made sure to meditate and work out every day and get a massage and/or acupuncture when I was able to fit these forms of healing into my schedule.

I decided to express gratitude for my life and all the things I’d taken for granted, such as my family, friends, home, and the time I was able to spend in nature. Given my lifelong commitment to the care of others (I was trained as a registered nurse), I decided to turn that compassion inward and indulge in more self-care. For years I’d put everyone else’s needs first, so it felt good to offer gratitude and kindness to myself.

Of course, when we’re diagnosed with something like cancer, the possibility of a recurrence is always in the back of our minds—but we have no way to predict the future, so we can only do our best and be compassionate with ourselves and others.

I have repeatedly told myself that cancer was no longer welcome in my life. I realized that I would thrive as long as I continued to love and, like what psychic Sonia Choquette says, “When you name it, you claim it.” And I am naming to be in the light. That’s my choice.

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About Diana Raab

Diana Raab, PhD, is a memoirist, blogger, poet, and award-winning author of nine books, and over 1000 articles and poems. She frequently writes and speaks about healing and transformation. She teaches two courses  on DailyOM. She blogs for Psychology Today, Wisdom Daily, and Thrive Global and many others. Her latest books are Writing for Bliss: A Seven-Step Program for Telling Your Story and Transforming Your Life, and Writing for Bliss:  A  Companion Journal. Visit her at: dianaraab.com.

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What I Now Do Instead of Trying to Rescue People

“A leader leads by example whether he intends to or not.” ~Unknown

This past year has been a journey—one that cracked me open in ways I never expected.

It began with life-changing news: I was pregnant with my third child. In August, I welcomed my baby, and as I held that tiny, precious life in my arms, the weight of reality crashed over me. Something had to give. I could not keep moving at the same relentless pace, endlessly pouring myself into others, holding their pain as if it were my own, and giving until there was nothing left. If I continued like this, I would become a shell of myself—a zombie mom, moving through life on vibrate mode, disconnected, exhausted, and lost.

For years, I had been the person everyone leaned on. The healer, the fixer, the one who never said no. As a therapist, it felt natural to care deeply, to hold space, and to offer whatever I had to those in need. I became so adept at giving that I forgot how to hold anything back for myself.

I thought that was love. I thought that was worthiness—being the person who could carry it all. But with another baby on the way, I finally saw the truth: If I didn’t change, I would be consumed. I couldn’t keep running on empty, sacrificing myself at every turn, and still be the mother my children deserved. I couldn’t be lost to burnout and depletion.

So, I made a promise to myself. I would protect my energy. I would honor my own needs. I would stop trying to be a savior.

“I am not a savior; I am a leader.” This became my mantra, my anchor in moments of doubt and old patterns.

It reminded me that my worth wasn’t tied to how much I gave or how many burdens I carried. Real healing wasn’t about sacrificing myself; it was about guiding and empowering others—without losing who I was in the process.

But breaking free of old habits isn’t easy. The reflex to jump in, to rescue, to absorb others’ pain is deeply ingrained. It’s part of who I’ve been for so long that choosing differently feels unnatural, even selfish at times.

Recently, a friend reached out in distress. Every instinct screamed at me to drop everything and save her. That’s what I always did—rush in, fix it, try to make everything better, even if it meant leaving myself drained and overwhelmed.

But this time, I paused. I took a breath. I reminded myself: “I am not a savior.” So, instead of absorbing her crisis, I encouraged her to lean on other supports and tap into her own resources. I stayed present, but I didn’t make myself the solution.

And let me tell you, it was hard. Guilt clawed at me. Doubt whispered that I was abandoning her, that I was failing her. I felt my inner child—the one who learned love was earned through fixing—screaming that I was making a mistake.

There were moments when it felt like I might break. Watching her struggle triggered every fear and insecurity I carried. But then something remarkable happened—she found her way. She leaned on others, drew on her own resilience, and overcame the challenge.

By stepping back, I hadn’t let her down—I had lifted her up. I had given her the space to find her strength, to be her own hero. And in doing so, I had freed myself from carrying a burden that was never truly mine to hold.

The realization left me breathless. By not being the rescuer, I had broken a cycle—a cycle that kept me drained and others dependent. I had shown up in a different way, and it felt terrifyingly unfamiliar but profoundly right.

I felt pride, relief, and a deep, aching grief. I grieved for all the times I had sacrificed myself, believing it was the only way to be worthy. I grieved for the younger me who thought love could only be earned through self-sacrifice. But I also felt hope—hope that I could lead with compassion and strength without losing myself.

This journey isn’t easy. The pull to rescue, to absorb, to fix is always there, whispering that I need to be more, to do more. But I’m learning to listen to a different voice—the one that tells me my needs matter too. That I am worthy of care and boundaries. That I can lead without sacrificing myself.

As I hold my new baby and navigate life with three children, I know there will be times when I slip. Times when I fall back into old patterns, when guilt gnaws at me, and when I feel the weight of everyone else’s needs pressing down. But I’m committed to choosing differently. I refuse to become the zombie mom, lost in everyone else’s expectations and needs. I deserve more. My children deserve more.

When I protect my energy and honor my needs, I become the mother I want to be. I show up with love, patience, and presence. I am not a savior. I am a leader. And when I choose to break these cycles, I give others permission to do the same. I create space for those around me to find their strength. I lead by example—not by sacrificing myself, but by showing what it means to love deeply without losing who you are.

So, I keep going. I choose myself, even when it feels hard. I break old patterns, even when it hurts. Because I deserve to be whole. I deserve to be honored. And those I care for deserve a version of me who leads with strength, compassion, and presence—not a shadow of who I used to be. I am not a savior. I am a leader. And that, for the first time in a long time, feels like more than enough.

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About Jamie Vollmoeller, LCSW

Jamie Vollmoeller, LCSW is a therapist, life coach, and mom of three who deeply understands the demands women face while balancing career, motherhood, and personal growth. As the founder of Long Island EMDR and The Good Enough Community, Jamie offers EMDR intensive therapy to provide women with transformative healing and a space to feel truly seen and supported.

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