There is nothing quite like motherhood to unravel our best laid plans, only to replace them with something messier, and far more meaningful. 

Take birth: an experience so many of us attempt to choreograph in advance. In my case, my respect for moms ballooned in an instant. It was when my first daughter arrived at 32 weeks in a flurry of words that didn’t befit a plan: intrauterine growth restriction, spontaneous placental abruption. My second daughter ejected herself, full term, shortly after arriving at the hospital. I managed to blurt out “VBAC!” between pushes. It had become obvious that a neat plan was out the window. There is no checkbox for “nurse delivers baby when doctor doesn’t make it in time” on a birth plan template. 

I used to believe a plan meant control. Three years in, I look back at my past self fondly; the person who thought anything related to kids could truly be planned.

What has stayed with me from my birth experiences are the things I couldn’t have planned for: the strength that comes from letting go. The perspective to appreciate how the real story unfolds. The realization that becoming a mother is an experience simultaneously unique and universal. I am now a part of something bigger than myself.

Now I know motherhood isn’t about executing a plan. It’s about embracing what comes. Even when it shows up earlier, or faster, than expected.