While my husband played with our infant daughter in the living room, I walked into the kitchen, where sunlight streamed in from the window above the sink. It was a Wednesday, which doesn’t mean anything in particular except that it marked another weeknight where I was in charge of feeding my family (i.e., my husband, since our daughter is still mostly on Similac).
Based on the ingredients in my fridge, I deemed that Wednesday night fit for a Pinterest-worthy dish I’d been itching to try: sushi bake.
There is a right way to make sushi bake. That is to say, the end result hinges on how much care goes into the process—the precision of shredding the imitation crab, the accuracy of air frying the salmon, and the careful layering of both meats with cream cheese and Japanese mayo.
It felt like my only responsibilities those days were changing diapers, pouring formula into 8-ounce bottles, and cooking dinner for my husband, so you bet I was going to make the hell out of that sushi bake.
As I waited for the oven’s *click* to signal it was finished preheating to 400 degrees, I air-fried the salmon and started to shred the imitation crab with my bare hands. I had an entire pound of the stuff, and since I knew it would take a while, I popped in my AirPods to play some music and pass the time.
I got to shredding. And shredding. And shredding some more, my fingers slick with crab juice. As I worked I drifted off into a train of thought, and every strand I pulled corresponded to a quiet insecurity echoing in my mind. Like the strands of imitation crab, these thoughts seemed small but quickly added up.
Who do you think you are, trying to make this complicated meal for your family? You can’t really cook. And even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. You’re falling short as a mom.
“Is dinner ready yet? What have you been doing for the last hour, babe?” my husband asked as he popped into the kitchen. Shoot, it’s already been an hour? Suddenly, I realized there was still half a pound of imitation crab waiting to be shredded, the salmon was burning in the air fryer, and the entire house was toasty from the oven being on for too long.
“Here, let me help you,” my husband said. He gently handed me our infant daughter and nudged me back to the living room.
With a sigh, I stepped aside and let him take over, while the insecurities about my worth as a mother quietly festered, planting seeds of doubt in the back of my mind.
//
This year, I transitioned into a new role as a stay-at-home mom. Although “transitioned” might not be the right word; it feels more like I was thrust into this role. It wasn’t gradual, and it wasn’t something I planned or chose for myself either.
I was raised by a single mother, which means I’ve experienced the lingering effects of a broken marriage: a deep fear of abandonment and a constant scarcity mindset, where everything feels like it could disappear at any moment.
Even though I’m happily married, I always imagined that when I had a child, I would still work as if I were a single mom. I pictured late nights, juggling everything on my own, and pushing through exhaustion, just like my mom did for me.
So when my husband looked me intently in the eyes one afternoon and said, “It would be best for our family if you stayed home,” after I had been struggling with my mental health, I sneered at his suggestion even though I was clearly being crushed under the weight of my high expectations.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t see the value in staying home. In my mind, staying at home was the easy route—the option for parents who lacked ambition. I genuinely thought that unless I was out there working to put food on the table, I wasn’t bringing value to our family. But as it turns out, my mind and body can’t handle the dual responsibilities of both a career and the demands of a new baby.
I have to choose one, and the choice has been made for me.
“Okay, fine,” I replied.
And I decided if I was going to do this stay-at-home mom thing, I would go all out: gourmet meals, homemade cookies, sensory play bins—the whole nine yards.
This can’t be hard, I told myself. I can do this.
//
In those early days at home, I did what any Gen Z mom seeking fresh ideas would do: I turned to the internet.
I created a Pinterest board full of casserole recipes, so I was never out of dinner ideas (which is where I found sushi bake, by the way). I filled our Amazon cart with “pediatrician influencer-approved” toys proven to enhance my daughter’s development. I organized her first Bluey-themed birthday party (while also figuring out how to fund it). I even involved my mother in the plans, and she offered to buy a cake from Publix, which conveniently included a complimentary mini cake for the cake smash. Perfect!
As I got lost in my plans, I realized the internet has a lot to say about motherhood, and I already felt behind. Social media strangers sure knew how to make stay-at-home life look luxurious with pristine kitchen countertops, homeschool curriculums, and lovingly curated meals. Meanwhile, I was stuck taking Prozac just to keep my life together.
Stay-at-home life was supposed to be easy. Why was it so hard for me?
//
Sometime in the midst of all this, my daughter and I went to a splash pad with my friend Kayla and her four kids who were all barefoot, clad in brightly colored swimsuits. The air smelled faintly of sunscreen. Kayla works part-time remotely from home, so most weeks she finishes early and could go out for playdates like this.
Kayla and I found a set of lounge chairs to sit in while the kids darted over to the sprays of water to play.
“Do you ever get used to not working to be home with your kids?” I asked.
I hoped she wouldn’t be offended by the question. With four kids—and two toddlers, no less—I knew she had this routine with them for a while now, and I was honestly curious about how she managed.
“To be honest, no. You don’t really get used to it,” she said.
She used to be a vet—a good one—before she had the twins. It was her dream career, but she let it go to be at home with her two littles. I wondered if she ever regretted that decision but chose not to ask. Perhaps it was okay that I didn’t feel natural in my role as a stay-at-home mom. Kayla didn’t either and that somehow made me feel less alone.
//
In honor of six years of marriage, my husband and I booked a room at an oceanfront resort with direct beach access and an infinity pool. It was the first time we got away without our daughter—just the two of us. I spent hours relaxing by the pool with my Kindle while my husband napped comfortably in our cool room, the AC set to a brisk 65 degrees.
On our first night there, we sat on the patio overlooking the ocean. We laughed, cried, and talked about how parenting was much harder than we expected. Eventually, our conversation shifted to how I’ve stepped up my cooking skills lately.
“I need you to know that fancy dinners don’t matter to me. We could eat cereal for dinner for all I care,” he said.
Six years. For six years, I truly believed that the best way to serve my husband was through good food. Don’t they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach? I even convinced myself that because I was now a stay-at-home mom, it was my responsibility—my duty—to prepare elaborate meals every evening. And now he’s telling me dinners don’t matter?
At that moment, I began to rethink my entire outlook on motherhood.
//
Now, a whole year has passed since her arrival, and we’re inching toward the winter solstice. The days grow shorter and the nights stretch longer, giving me ample time to reflect on how I spend those days with my daughter.
Motherhood, I’ve come to realize, is far more complex than I made it out to be. It’s not a burden, but that doesn’t diminish the weight it carries. And I’ve learned that the external things—the meals, the tidiness—mean very little if my heart and mind aren’t tuned into my daughter’s needs.
It’s another Wednesday, and I’m feeling completely drained. Our daughter was particularly feisty this afternoon, and right now, the last thing I want to do is prepare a meal.
“What’s for dinner?” my husband asks from the living room.
I take a moment to check in with my heart, reminding myself that my worth as a mother isn’t tied to the meals I prepare or how impressive my homemaking skills are. My value doesn’t come from perfectly plated dinners or spotless rooms. What my family truly needs is me—my presence. That’s enough.
I call over to my husband with a short response: “Cereal.”
Guest essay written by
. Kathy is a writer who resides in central Florida with her high school sweetheart and daughter. An avid reader and nature trail explorer, she loves to write about what it means to live a quietly faithful life and press into silent, still moments. You can connect with Kathy on Instagram and on her Substack, .Photo by Jennifer Floyd.
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 | A guest post by
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I remember one day in April 2020. I had a 2.5 year old and a 4 month old who I was triple feeding. Breastfeeding/bottle feeding both donor milk and formula. Fighting PPA and on what felt like day 2000 of the pandemic. My husband asked what was for dinner and I said. Fridge hunt. Hunt and gather whatever you want.
CEREAL!! YES