Letting Go of Perfect: A Quiet Revolution in My Living Room

I used to think that motherhood had a finish line—one you could reach if you just followed all the right advice, made all the right choices, and stuck to your plan. I had read the books. I had mapped it all out. I was ready to be the mom who set boundaries, encouraged independence early, and most certainly did not co-sleep. I was ready to embrace perfectionism in motherhood.

And then real life began…

When I started co-sleeping with my daughter, I wasn’t proud. In fact, I was almost resentful—resentful of losing the quiet, solitary time I had once cherished at the end of the day. Resentful that my partner, who works outside the home full time, still got to sleep alone. But most of all, I was resentful of myself—for doing the very thing I always said I wouldn’t do.

But beneath that resentment was something deeper: grief for the version of motherhood I thought I had to live up to. The one where I got it “right” the first time. The one where everything was neat and intentional and according to plan.

The Words That Changed Everything

In those early, sleepless nights, my daughter would sometimes stir and cry in her sleep. I’d reach over and place my hand on her tiny back and whisper:

“It’s okay, Baby. I’ve got you. Mama’s here. You’re safe at home with Mama and Baba.”
(“Baba” is the Chinese word for Dad.)

And just like that, she’d settle—her body relaxing into mine as she drifted back into sleep.

I didn’t know it then, but those words were doing more than calming her—they were building something. A foundation. A memory. A deep sense of security, even if she couldn’t yet name it.

Then one groggy morning, as I sipped what felt like my fourth cup of coffee, I watched her playing with her toys. She acted out a scene where Baby Piston was afraid of something, and Flash gently reassured him:

“It’s okay. I got you. I’m here.”

To which Baby Piston replied, “Okay, I’m safe. Let’s go play!”

I stood there, stunned. Proud. Grateful. A little self-conscious, even. In that ordinary moment, I realized that all those nights—when I felt like I was falling short of the mother I imagined—I was showing up in the way that mattered most. She heard me; she felt me. And now, she was echoing that love back into the world.

Presence Over Perfection

I still wrestle with perfectionism—it’s woven into how I’ve built my life, how I’ve coped, and how I’ve tried to feel in control. But motherhood is slowly, persistently, teaching me that perfect isn’t the point. Present is.

Not every night is calm. Not every day ends with all the boxes checked. But when I reach for her and whisper that she is safe and loved, I know I’m giving her something more valuable than a perfect childhood—I’m giving her a secure one.

What Our Children Actually Remember

It’s easy to believe that what matters most are the carefully curated routines, the developmental checklists, or the birthday parties with coordinated themes. But our children are not keeping score—they’re collecting moments.

They remember how we made them feel. They remember the comfort of our voice in the dark. They remember being held when they needed us most.

They remember that we were there.

Why I’m Retiring My Cape and Keeping the Coffee

I may never master the art of weekly meal prep or show up to daycare drop-off without a bit of cereal in my hair. But I’m learning to let go of the need to be “Supermom.”

She doesn’t need a superhero. She needs me. The real, flawed, steady version who shows up—even on the messy days.

So I’m retiring the cape. I’m choosing the quiet power of presence over the exhausting pursuit of perfection. And yes, I’m keeping the coffee.