I used to think people with big families were completely out of their minds. As an only child of immigrant parents, I couldn’t fathom why anyone would willingly invite that kind of chaos into their lives all those mouths to feed, the endless piles of laundry, the color-coded calendars stacked with activities. My parents worked themselves to the bone to give me everything I needed, and watching them do it left me with a scarcity mindset. Kids, in my mind, were a luxury one I didn’t plan on ever indulging in.
Truth be told, motherhood wasn’t even on my radar.
While other girls my age were cradling baby dolls and dreaming about someday being moms, I was dreaming about books, planes, and freedom. I wanted to write. I wanted to travel. I wanted a life that was mine and mine alone one that didn’t revolve around caring for someone else. Maybe that makes me selfish, or maybe, deep down, I just knew motherhood wasn’t meant for me.
Fast-forward to now. I’m sitting in an old brick house in Idaho, wearing a blue nightie and running on day three of dry shampoo. The air smells faintly like waffles and baby wipes. Somewhere in the background, one kid is crying, another is laughing, and three more are arguing over a video game.
Five kids.
If you had told me years ago that this would be my life, I would’ve laughed until I cried. But life has a way of handing you everything you swore you didn’t want and showing you it was exactly what you needed all along.
Motherhood is the most brutal, beautiful thing I’ve ever known. It breaks you down and rebuilds you into someone you hardly recognize in the best possible way. Each child tests your patience to its limit, and just when you think you’ve given everything you have, they look up with that smile or whisper, “I love you, Mom,” and suddenly, you do have more to give. Somehow, you always do.
Lincoln came first, in 2012 my “oops” baby. I was a nervous newlywed who could barely keep a plant alive, let alone a person. Two years later came Donovan quiet, thoughtful, and born on my birthday, as if the universe wanted to remind me that life can surprise you in the sweetest ways. After that, I swore I was done. Two kids. Perfect number. Manageable.
Then came the divorce.
I told myself I was done with babies for good. I adored my boys, but I wanted no part of diapers, daycare, or birthday party chaos. My plan was simple: raise them well, stay young, and finally chase the dreams I’d put on hold. But, as always, life laughed at my plans.
In 2016, I met him the man who flipped my world upside down. He was steady, kind, and funny in that disarming, soul-level way. A veteran. A father of two. A man who had already lived enough life to know what mattered. We fell hard and fast first date in June, engaged by August, married by December. Everyone assumed I must’ve been pregnant. I wasn’t. I just knew he was my person.
Blending our families was surprisingly natural. My boys gained two instant best friends in Colter and Remington, and our house became a loud, messy, beautiful tangle of love and chaos. Color-coded calendars dictated our lives co-parenting schedules, soccer games, forgotten cleats. It was exhausting. But it worked. It felt right.
Then one night, out of nowhere, he looked over at me and said, “How would you feel about having a baby?”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked.
But a few months later, there we were pregnant.
Emmett arrived in 2018 after a long, exhausting labor, and from the moment I held him, I knew this was it. The missing piece. He’s wild, hilarious, and adored by every one of his siblings. Watching them love him melts me every single time.
These days, our home is loud, cluttered, and full in every possible way. We camp, we travel, we play Pokémon GO. The kids have chores and one rule: be kind. They fold their laundry, help with dinner, and remind us that teamwork is the only way this ship sails.
People sometimes say, “You’re such a supermom.” I always laugh, because I’m not. Most days, I’m just surviving juggling anxiety, depression, and the constant guilt that comes with wondering if I’m enough.
But then I look at my husband, at our five kids laughing in the next room, and I realize something that younger me never could’ve imagined:
This is it.
This is the life I never thought I wanted and it’s the most beautiful kind of chaos there is. Somewhere in the middle of all the noise and mess, I found everything I didn’t even know I was looking for.
A full house.
And a full heart.
