Turns Out, This Is Happiness

Motherhood Is Brutal. But Then He Hugged Me Back.

I’m sitting at the breakfast table, hair unwashed, wearing yesterday’s clothes. My toddler has just launched his spoon (filled with food) for the third time across the room, and I’m fighting back tears of frustration. Then, he looks up at me, giggles in that heart-warming way of his, and says something witty. And just like that, my heart melts. This, I realise, is the rollercoaster of motherhood. And somehow, life feels good.

From Darkness to Light

I promised multiple people that I would write this. Including my therapist, my mom-friend who needs a lifeline, and my sister and brother-in-law who need a reminder why having children is actually pretty awesome.

I’ve been postponing it because it’s hard to write something that feels true without sounding cheesy. If you’ve followed my story, you know that I’ve shared some dark moments: burnout, the identity crisis that can come with motherhood, the sleep deprivation, and the mental noise.

But today, I want to show the other side. Not because suddenly everything is great, and wonderful, but because my son gives me a reason to smile, or even laugh out loud every day. And I want to honour that part, too.

Surviving the Storm

Becoming a mom threw me into a stormy ocean. The kind where you’re not just swimming against the current, but also dragging a backpack full of bricks. Sleep deprivation, figuring everything out from scratch, and doing it mostly on my own made me feel like I went far, far beyond my limits.

I was in survival mode. My brain was foggy, my thoughts jumbled, my body a vessel running on autopilot. I was technically alive, but I didn’t feel like a person.

There was no magic switch. Instead, tiny moments slowly built up. Moments that helped me heal and deepened the bond between my son and me. The first time he laughed at something I did. The first time we had breakfast while making little jokes. The first time he hugged me just because he wanted to, I thought: I will never be unhappy again.
(Spoiler: I was, about six hours later, during the 2am, 3:30am and 5:15am wake-ups. I guess some things never change.)

And now, writing all of this, I realise: this is hard, but it’s also fascinating. And beautiful. And full of love.

Redefining Happiness

What does happiness look like now? Is it never feeling tired or overwhelmed again? Or is it his hand in mine on the way to daycare, his tiny body nestled against mine while we read, our garden bench cuddles, or the way he points at clouds, birds, and planes? It’s his dad hiding under a blanket pretending to be invisible, and our son bursting into laughter, pointing, and asking, “Mum-mum, look, what is dad doing?” (That part sounds especially funny in Dutch, our native tongue, trust me.) It’s his obsession with the colour orange, garbage trucks, and dramatically fake-falling with his little friend from daycare.

It’s how he shouts “MY MAMA!” when he sees me, running full speed like a puppy reunited after weeks apart (even if it’s just been ten minutes).

Sometimes he picks out a bedtime book with such excitement, you’d think it was a present on Christmas morning. “Pick a book,” we say, and he races to the shelf, proudly marching back with it in hand. One evening, I wanted to let him be because he was playing so sweetly, but when I went to put on my pyjamas, he followed me, crawled into my bed with his book, and just waited for storytime.
When both his dad and I read him a story, I always think: What a happy little boy he must be. What a happy life we share.

One of my daily goals is to make him laugh out loud. I allow myself to fail at everything else, but not that. (Okay, fine. I don’t allow myself to fail at anything. But this one especially is non-negotiable.)

The Primal Bond

What still surprises me is how animalistic it all feels and how deeply tied it is to my well-being. My body craves him. I need to hold him, kiss his little face, and inhale the scent of his hair. It’s like my nervous system resets every time I do. Or like I’m a truffle pig in need of its sniff of truffle.

The disappointment I feel when he smells like someone else’s perfume is painfully real. (Tip for anyone visiting a newborn baby: do not wear perfume.) I just want him to smell like himself.

Once, I was holding my little niece and for a split second forgot it wasn’t my son. I kissed her and instantly knew because the smell wasn’t the same. You’d think I’d turned into a British hunting dog. (Also, I did just casually gloss over the fact that my memory span is now that short. Honestly, I barely even notice it as weird anymore.)

When we’re out in public, I strut behind him like a proud peacock. Every time he does something remotely adorable (which is often), I instinctively look around to catch the eye of a stranger who might witness this brilliance.

My son does a thing. I beam. I look up. A stranger locks eyes. The stranger nods: “Your son is sunshine itself.”
I nod back: “I know.”

Except that one time. That one person didn’t make eye contact, and I still feel the sting of betrayal. Was he blind, or just dead inside?

The strangers are lucky, though. They just have to experience my craziness in a small, short-lived dose. The same can’t be said for the members in our family WhatsApp group. So far, I’ve managed to restrain myself to only 20 messages about my son a day.

I do admit I have equal parts pride and “what a strange boy you are” moments. Like the time I dozed off and woke up because he had stuck his finger so far up my nose I couldn’t breathe. Or when he pressed a pillow down on my face while laughing hysterically.

Growing Together

People say you don’t know what love is until you have a child. And sure, that first newborn moment is huge. But I think it deepens over time.

Now that he can talk, laughs at my jokes (finally someone does!), and hugs me back, it’s a whole different level. He isn’t just cute. He’s funny. Strange, in the best way. Every day, you see his personality take shape.

He’s not just a bundle of genes and neurons surviving. He’s participating in life.

I am still tired. Still a little messed-up. Still overwhelmed. I lose my temper. I cry. I whisper “I can’t do this” more than I admit out loud.

But I also have a son who starts dancing every time he hears something remotely melodic. Who stops in his tracks to show me pink flowers. Who reflects my own quirks back to me with brutal honesty. Who has a full-blown personality that fills my entire heart and mind with light.

Embracing the Chaos

I used to think I could only be happy once everything was under control. But as I write this, I realise: even with crumbs in my hair, mysterious stains on my work pants I literally just took out of the closet, a thousand open tabs in my head (not one of them helpful), and a toddler on my lap… this is happiness, and life is good.