The motherhood debt: Providing a safety I never owned

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People ask why I’m not "glowing". They ask, "How can you not be excited?" as if joy is a default setting I’ve simply forgotten to turn on. But the truth is: I have been an adult since my childhood, and I am simply out of breath now.

​I grew up grey before my time. In my house, I wasn’t protected; I was the protector. As the designated ‘understanding’ child, I spent my days acting as a mediator, navigating the volatile tantrums of parents who were as emotionally unavailable as they were immature. While other children were allowed to be messy, I was learning to read the air for unpredictability, catching family drama and chaos before it shattered. I didn't grow up; I just moved into a larger skin. Because I spent my childhood parenting my parents, starting a family doesn't feel like a beginning; it feels like the second shift of a job I’ve been doing for ages.

​The closer I get to my due date, the more I realise I am heading into a future without a blueprint. When you don’t have a role model to look up to, nothing feels "natural". I worry that basic instincts will fail me, leaving me overtly conscious of every hypothetical move. I’m already haunted by the question of "how much is enough?"— how much love, how much discipline, how much presence. Without a healthy example to mirror, I am terrified of second-guessing every moment. 

​I had the roof, the clothes, and the education—the markers of a stable life. But while my physical needs were met, I remained psychologically homeless. A child requires a peaceful environment to thrive, yet I have never known peace.

​When you grow up in survival mode, silence feels like a trap. This is why I remain perpetually on edge, reacting to minor triggers with a flash of anger or a surge of panic. My nervous system is still braced for a crisis that hasn’t arrived. Productivity and perfection have become my only defence—a way to outrun the void. It is infinitely easier to buy a crib than it is to provide the emotional safety I never received.

​How do I learn to value a child when I spent my life feeling like a burden myself? I was never allowed to just be; I had to be useful. Now, with two months left, I am terrified. I am scared that my hands, so used to bracing for impact, will forget how to simply hold. I am scared that I have no energy left to be a "real" parent because I’ve already spent my soul’s currency on the adults who came before me.

​Healing is a slow, heavy process, and I have tried, and am still trying. But life doesn't stop for the weary. It pushes you forward even when you aren't ready. I am unsure if I can ever heal completely, but I know the cycle must end with me.

​So yeah, I am not "unhappy" — I am just depleted. I am a well that was run dry before it could ever replenish. And as I count down these final sixty days, I am realising my greatest task isn't the nursery; it is learning how to stop being the "fixer" for a moment, so that my child never has to start being one too soon.

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