Today, you turn three.
They say if you get the first three years right, you’re set for life.
As a recovering perfectionist, that idea nearly broke me. The invisible pressure. The unbearable weight of trying to shape a future I couldn’t see—every decision heavy with meaning. The mental load of wondering: Am I doing this right? Am I enough? Will she be okay?
They also say parenting is only hard because you care so much. But I don’t think that’s true.
It’s hard because it’s relentless. Because raising kids without a village is exhausting. Because someone is always sick, or crying, or needing something. Because the nights are broken, the days are noisy, and the mental load never ends.
Yes, I love you fiercely. But that love doesn’t make the hard parts any less hard. It just makes me keep showing up.
The Early Days: Survival and Surrender
In those early months, your dad and I would look at each other in the dark and whisper things we were too scared to say aloud during the day:
Why did we think this was a good idea?
You wouldn’t sleep. I couldn’t sleep. We were all in pieces, patched together with bum pats, contact naps, and a three-hourly feeding schedule.
I used to cry before bed, anxious about how the night might unfold. You needed warmth. A shoulder. A slow transfer after being asleep for fifteen minutes, into a pre-warmed bed with a wheat pack tucked inside. If I rushed, or if the bed was too cold, we’d have to start all over again.
But we got through it. And soon, you learned to roll, crawl, and then walk. We danced to Baby Shark and Hot Potato more times than I care to admit. We baked black bean brownies and muesli bars with chia seeds and LSA when you started solids. I Googled every milestone, every sleep regression, every worry. I whispered to you, sang to you, and held you through your hardest moments—some of which were mine, too.
The Exhaustion of Caring
There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t just come from broken sleep, but from caring deeply.
From the silent mental tabs that never close:
Should we keep her home or send her to preschool?
Is this food okay? Is this show overstimulating?
Is this just a phase, or something more?
What kind of world am I raising her in?
And through it all, we gave everything we had—and then some—to the cause. To you.
The Day I Started Seeing You Clearly
You spoke early. You thought deeply. You noticed things other people didn’t.
And somewhere along the way, my worry started to twist into wonder. Maybe you were wired differently—spectacularly.
You feel everything with your whole body. You think in constellations. You express love through wild dancing, whispered questions, and fierce cuddles.
It took me time to see it clearly. To stop seeing difference as difficulty, and start seeing it as brilliance.
You've Changed Me Too
For three years now, we’ve been growing together.
You’ve been my mirror, my teacher, my undoing, and my becoming.
I thought I was raising you—but it turns out you were raising me too.
Your dad jokes that he’s got two versions of the same soul in his life now. He’s not wrong. You are my girl through and through—intense, thoughtful, sensitive, joyful.
You’ve taught me to slow down. To see beauty in the smallest details. To feel everything without shame.
Even on the days I haven’t regulated myself enough to help you with your big feelings, you’ve taught me grace. Your emotions aren’t too much. Neither are mine. And now, when I get overwhelmed, you gently remind me: “Take a deep breath, and count to four.”
What the World Doesn’t Always See
I feel sad sometimes, knowing the world may not see you the way we do.
They see “shy,” “timid,” “quiet.”
But they don’t see the fire. The humour. The unstoppable curiosity. The cyclone energy that moves through our lounge like a storm.
You are layered. You are magic. And I wish I’d spoken up for you more often—told the world that you weren’t being difficult. You were communicating in the only way you knew how.
A Wildflower on Your Own Terms
You are joy and sunshine. You are tropical storms and double rainbows.
You are the extremes of nature—a wildflower growing on her own terms.
You love with your whole self. You dance like a maniac. You ask the best questions. You are brave. You are kind. You are intelligent. You are loved beyond words.
I Guess We've Done Alright...
We weren’t perfect parents. We argued about sleep. Obsessed over screen time. Lost patience with each other and you. But you? You’re perfect.
So I guess we did alright.
Here’s to three years of loving and learning you, my darling.
Thank you for making me a mum.
Thank you for reshaping my world.
If I had known then what I know now, every single hard part would still be worth it—a thousand times over.
Because you, my girl, are everything that is good in the world.
They say if you get the first three years right, you’re set for life.
I don’t know if we got it “right.”
But we were there—fully, fiercely, imperfectly.
And if these years really do set the tone,
then I hope yours hum with love, laughter, and wild joy.
Love always,
your mama xo
