We Need To Stop Talking About Motherhood Like It's A Tragedy

Motherhood is not an easy task. It's often painful in both physical and emotional ways. We can't describe it as a "perfect" experience, but it is the one that will completely change your perspective on being alive, giving you the best feeling anyone can experience. The absolute joy of watching a baby learn every little thing for the first time fills your heart with a mix of love, pride, and wonder that has no comparison. Creating life is already a miracle, so the excitement of each new word, those wobbly steps with arms in the air for balance, the personality traits that show their sense of humor, fears, dreams, and later, the development of critical thinking and personal opinions become unexpected rewards in this rollercoaster ride. Also, if we’re being brutally honest, our children are probably the only people most of us would really give our lives for without thinking twice. It's such an extraordinary emotion, to love like that. From the moment you start carrying that tiny human inside, the transformation begins. Your thoughts, wishes, and actions are now focused on protecting someone else who will eventually become entirely independent from you. Spending years watching that life grow while it remains connected to you by an invisible bond is fascinating. That’s why I struggle so much with a concept I constantly see reflected on social media: Motherhood is almost exclusively portrayed through the lens of exhaustion. It's all about trauma, burnout, identity loss, sacrifice. Motherhood is almost exclusively portrayed through the lens of exhaustion. Obviously, there are some extreme hardships. Many women are raising children alone, without enough resources, sometimes even feeling abandoned by the government. Nevertheless, we should continue talking about motherhood with admiration. Being able to ignite and nurture a new life matters now more than ever. The rise of AI makes it essential to foster our humanity. I’m not saying any of this because motherhood was easy for me. Quite the opposite, actually. October 6, 2016, is etched in my memory. Hurricane Matthew was heading straight toward Florida. I was a field reporter for a local news station. My massive belly and a relentless craving for McDonald’s french fries were a dangerous combination. While half of Miami was buying water and plywood, I was working through contractions with an infusion of happiness and adrenaline. Totally on brand with my adventurous personality: weather drama, breaking news energy, and imminent childbirth all happening at once. That night, my husband took me to the hospital. I felt so relaxed that we stopped for gas, as if we were heading to Disney World. My favorite playlist kept me singing and dancing in my seat. Somehow, I trusted the process. Then, we arrived at the hospital. We parked. We walked toward the entrance. Suddenly, my heart started racing. It was the most chaotic symphony. The receptionist asked: “What brings you in tonight?” A voice that came from me, but sounded foreign, answered: “I’m here to have my baby…” I fell apart, crying uncontrollably, because now I had to face reality. Not a live shot from a hurricane. Not an adrenaline rush. Just my alter ego asking: What if something goes wrong? What if you can’t do this? Is this going to hurt a lot? A few minutes later, I stopped the mental rant, breathed, and told myself: “Carolina, you are brave. Every person in the world was born from a woman. We are made for this.” I walked in, ready for a poetic experience, convinced that it would be a natural delivery. No epidural. No C-section. My new role became the mission I was born to fulfill. Warrior mode on. Instead, I got my own version of medieval torture. Contractions feel like someone is prying your pelvis open from the inside with no anesthesia. My armor cracked when the doctor looked at me and said: “This is your last chance for an epidural.” I quickly begged: “Give it to me immediately.” The anesthesiologist laughed. According to him, every woman hugged him afterward. He whispered: “My nickname around here is Jesus.” Honestly, I understood why his patients were so grateful. God definitely blessed his hands. I only pushed three times, and Kalel was born. And that’s when I saw the light. Not metaphorically. My body got warm in a peaceful way, and I felt embraced by a mystical shine. I understood what millions of women had gone through, and now I was part of that special tribe. I was a mother. My new role became the mission I was born to fulfill. Happiness is too short a word to encompass the meaning of my elation. Six years later, my daughter Arella was ready to make her triumphant entrance into our lives. Another huge belly. More french fries. Despite my planet-sized stomach, I felt beautiful, even sexy. I arrived at the hospital fully confident, but this time, the story was different. The ER doctor in charge performed such an aggressive examination that it caused a placental abruption. Obstetric violence. We should call it what it is. I ended up needing an emergency C-section. The recovery was brutal. Nurses pressing down on my stomach to make sure no blood remained trapped. I still shiver remembering the pain. And yet, when I heard Arella's first cry, I saw the light all over again. I know I can only speak for myself, but this Mother's Day left me wanting to say something that may go against the trend: Yes, motherhood is exhausting. It can change your body. It impacts your career. Yes, the burden of raising kids still falls unfairly on women far too often. Even though all of that is true, we’re making a mistake when we turn motherhood into just sacrifice and exhaustion. We erase what’s extraordinary about it. Children change your entire life, but more than that, they change your ability to appreciate it. Motherhood demands more than you ever imagined, but it also transforms you in ways you couldn't have predicted. A self-absorbed person learns to think about someone else. Previous disorganization becomes discipline. And above all, we discover a capacity for love that expands, evolves, and grows every day. Maybe that's the real magic mothers have been talking about for centuries. Children change your entire life, but more than that, they change your ability to appreciate it. Now, I enjoy the small things more. Going to the movies feels like a vacation in Capri. Sleeping eight uninterrupted hours is the equivalent of a spiritual retreat. Having one hour alone is the epitome of luxury. Motherhood didn't take away my identity. If anything, it gave me perspective. That's why I believe we need to change the conversation. Not to romanticize exhaustion, ignore inequality, or pretend everything is perfect, but to understand that supporting mothers should not come only from pity. It should stem from the deep recognition that bringing human beings into this world is crucial for future generations. To me, the issue should be seen as a whole, considering motherhood’s challenges and glorious gifts, because the most extraordinary things in life almost always bring both. To really celebrate moms and recognize them as the coolest people in our lives, we need to build systems, policies, and cultures that truly support them as they deserve, and still bring them flowers, chocolate, or that gorgeous purse she won't stop talking about.