Day 3: What Am I Still Angry About Even Though I Say I’m Over It?

I tell myself I’m over how my children’s fathers treated me during my pregnancies, but the truth is, I’m not. Not really. What happened didn’t just hurt my feelings; it rewired my brain. It changed the way I understand safety. It changed the way I interpret love. It changed the way my body remembers those months. I didn’t get gentleness. I didn’t get protection. I didn’t get partnership. I got survival mode. And survival mode leaves residue.

I tell myself I’m over the miscarriages too, but they changed me in ways I still don’t have full language for. They changed the way I walk into hope. They changed the way excitement feels in my body. They changed the way I imagine the future. I don’t get to be naïve or wide‑eyed or movie‑soft about pregnancy anymore. Loss took that from me, and I’m still angry about that.

I wish becoming a mother had been magical. I wish it had been tender. I wish it had looked like the scenes you see in movies, glowing, supported, cherished. Instead, mine was lonely, frightening, and full of grief I didn’t have space to process. I didn’t get the soft beginning. I didn’t get the sweet unfolding. I didn’t get the fairytale.

And I’m still angry about that, angry about the version of motherhood I never got to have, angry about the ways I had to be strong when I should’ve been held, angry about the joy that was stolen before it ever had a chance to bloom.

But here’s the part I’m finally able to name. That anger didn’t just sit inside me. It shaped me.

It made me pay attention. It made me intentional. It made me protective in the best way. It made me determined to give my children what I never had.

Because even though my beginnings were messy and painful, I refuse to let that be the story my children inherit. I refuse to let them grow up wondering if they were wanted, or loved, or worth showing up for. I refuse to let them feel the absence I felt.

So I love loudly. I love consistently. I love in ways that leave no room for doubt. I love with presence, with softness, with steadiness. I love with the kind of tenderness I once begged for.

And as a step‑mom, I carry that same commitment. I know what it feels like to be unsure of your place, to question whether you’re chosen. So I make sure they never have to. I show up. I stay. I make space. I make home. I make belonging something they can feel in their bones.

My past didn’t give me the motherhood I dreamed of, but it taught me how to build the motherhood I want my children to remember.

So yes, I’m still angry. But I’m also healing. And I’m raising my children from that healing, not from the hurt.

Because the truth is simple.

I never want my children to question my love for them.

Not for a second.

Not ever.