A Letter to My 29-Year-Old Self

I can’t tell you exactly why—maybe because my eldest baby is turning 21 next month (how did I get here?)—but I’ve been thinking a lot about younger me these past few days.

Specifically, 29-year-old me. The stay-at-home mama who intentionally put her physio career on the back burner to focus on her babies and home.

Born just 17 months apart, my first two babies were the greatest gift. Being their mama was a dream come true.

But wow, that season was hard.

I remember the intensity of it—the “Groundhog Day” feeling, the long days and interrupted nights. The way exhaustion settled deep into my bones. The relentless cycle of nappy changes, snacks, laundry, and tidying up only to do it all over again.

And yet, in the middle of that beautiful, messy, exhausting season, I also remember the quiet moments. Chubby little hands reaching for mine. Tiny voices calling out “Mama.” The warmth of their bodies snuggled against mine as they drifted off to sleep.

I knew I was exactly where I needed to be. But I also longed for a break.

I look back now, and I feel sad. Sad that I can’t go back in time to just sit, laugh, and play with those two little girls. To soak them in without the weight of responsibility pressing so heavily on my shoulders.

I wish I could tell that younger me to worry less. To let go of the pressure to get everything right.

To stop obsessing over sleep and feeding schedules. To loosen my grip on the endless to-do list.

To trust myself more, and the noise of everyone else’s opinions less.

But I also know how hard that is when you’re completely exhausted and tapped out. When every decision feels heavy. When the world tells you that motherhood is both the most important job in the world and the one you should somehow make look effortless.

I’m sorry that I didn’t live up to my own impossible expectations of being “the perfect mama.”

I did my best.

But oh, how I made mistakes.

And as I sit here writing this, I realise—29-year-old me needs my compassion. My love. She needs to know that perfection in motherhood is a myth. A lie.

She was doing it.

She worried about containing the mess, tackling the laundry pile, figuring out what was for dinner. But I want to remind her to worry less. That spaghetti on toast is just fine, and no one else knows (or cares) if the clothes in the drawers are folded or not.

I want to tell her it’s okay to collapse on the couch and just be with her babies. That the days may feel long, but the years truly are short.

I want to tell her that her girls are going to be okay. More than okay.

That her two eldest daughters will grow into beautiful, independent, strong leaders—who will follow their dreams and forge their own paths.

That two more babies will come to complete the family. That together, the six of us will be imperfect, but deeply connected by love that cannot be broken.

That life won’t be easy—because struggle is part of being human.

…But she is stronger than she knows.

I want to wrap my arms around that 29-year-old version of me and whisper, You are enough. You always were.

She doesn’t need to carry the weight of trying to be perfect—just present. Just loving. Just real.

And if I could, I’d thank her. Thank her for showing up, for pouring her heart into those little lives, for embracing both the joy and the struggle.

Because every exhausted bedtime story, every tear wiped, every deep breath taken in the middle of chaos, even when she lost it—it all mattered.

And now, from where I stand, I see it so clearly:

She was never failing. She was always growing.

And that? That is more than enough.