The guilt…
it felt heavy.
Heavy in a way I couldn’t always explain,
yet I carried it everywhere I went.
The guilt of working—
and feeling like I wasn’t resting enough.
And when I finally rested…
the guilt of not doing enough.
If I was doing something,
I felt like I wasn’t enjoying it enough.
And if I was enjoying—
I wondered why I wasn’t being more productive.

And then… motherhood.
The guilt there?
It felt limitless.
Maybe it began in those early postpartum days—
when everything felt unfamiliar, overwhelming,
and I was still learning how to exist in this new version of life.

It showed up everywhere.
Staying at home,
yet feeling like I should take her out every single day, no matter what.
Making sure she eats,
yet still feeling like I should be doing more—trying new foods, changing meals, doing better every day.
Scolding her,
and then replaying it in my mind, wondering if I was too harsh.
Not scolding her,
and then wondering if I wasn’t doing enough at all.
Losing my patience when she cried, when she shouted—
and then carrying that heaviness long after it was over.

Guilt for being seen as “just a mother”…
and not feeling enough in the other roles I carry.

Guilt for not being happy in moments I should have enjoyed the most.

And so much more…

quietly pressing against my chest.
When she fell sick,
my mind wouldn’t settle—
thinking I didn’t try enough,
that I should have known better, done better.
And somewhere in all of this…
I kept asking myself—
is she happy with me as her mother?
Am I truly enough for her?
It built quietly—
until one day, it no longer felt small.
It felt like weight.
Like something constantly sitting on my chest.
And slowly…
it turned into loneliness.
Even when people meant well,
it felt like heaviness.
And that heaviness grew—
not because people stepped away,
but because guilt kept pulling me inward.

There was a time
I carried this guilt like it defined me.
As if being a good woman,
a good mother,
meant constantly questioning myself.
And even advice given with love—
only made the guilt louder.

But somewhere along the way…
something shifted.
I realised—
I wasn’t becoming better by carrying all this guilt.
I was only becoming heavier.
More exhausted.
More disconnected from myself.
So I began to let go.
Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
Just slowly.

Letting go of perfect meals.

Perfect days.
Perfect responses.

Letting go of the need
to get everything right.

I am still tired sometimes.
And sometimes, I say—
go to someone else today.
And sometimes, I open my arms and say—
come here, I’m all yours.
Both are real.
Both are me.

I still juggle every day—
between being present for her
and holding onto pieces of myself.

There are still days
when tears linger quietly at the edge…
But I no longer carry guilt with them.

Because I’ve learned this—
A calm, present me
does far more than a tired, guilty me ever could.
And when I stopped chasing perfection,
I finally started living.
My child felt it.
My home felt it.
I am not perfect.
But I am present.
And that…
is enough.

And then someone once told me—
maybe God has chosen you as the mother your child needs.
And for the first time…
I paused.
And whenever I feel overwhelmed again, I come back to this line.
And I realise my intent has always been to do what is best for my child.
I have always tried my best within my means.
And somehow… that thought calms me down.

To becoming myself more, while remembering the emotions that stayed even after the guilt.

— Arwa

To the woman who learned to let it go.