I’ve always been back and forth about having kids. After my divorce in my early twenties, I was certain I would never have them. My sister even has a video of me saying my name, my age, and that I would never ever ever have kids. She loves pulling it up now just to tease me.
I thought the fear was about labor. But looking back, I can see it was really about something else. It was a fear rooted in trauma. Fear of ending up a mother in a life that didn’t feel safe or right for me. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t because I didn’t want children. It was because I was terrified of being trapped in motherhood under the wrong circumstances.
Then I met my partner. And slowly, that fear softened. Things began to feel different
Now that I’m a mom, I’ve realized something unexpected. Memories and feelings have been resurfacing at random. The anticipation I felt about reading to my baby. The way I decorate our home. The routines I naturally fall into and plan for him. All of it connects back to people who shaped me long before I ever imagined becoming a mother.
So much of the way I move through motherhood traces back to my fourth grade teacher and the care she gave me. The structure she created and the intention behind her routines.
And the way I care for our home now. The activities, the meals, and the planning comes from a stay at home mom I knew growing up. She welcomed me into her home, fed me, and let me tag along on all of her family’s adventures. She showed me what warmth and presence looks like inside a home.
The teacher who shaped me
The care and attention I received from my fourth grade teacher is something I’ve never experienced in the same way again. Not saying my other teachers weren’t wonderful. They were. But it was the way she went above and beyond for me.
I was a native Spanish speaker. Spanish was my first language. It was the language spoken at home by my mom, my grandparents, and everyone around me. When I transferred to a new school, everything was suddenly in English. At that time, ESL programs weren’t offered until middle school. There was no formal support system waiting for me.
So she became it.
She made it her goal that I learn English. And instead of rushing me or making me feel behind, she created a calm, structured, and safe routine for me.
Every morning when we walked into class, there was classical music playing softly. We greeted one another, and we practiced cursive writing to start the day. Then she would quietly ask me to go to another classroom. I was in fourth grade, but she sent me to sit with the second graders, where they were learning phonics and practicing reading. I spent about an hour there every single morning, learning alongside them, before returning to her classroom to continue the rest of the day as normal.
At the end of the day, while the other students worked on activities I don’t quite remember anymore, she would bring in a sixth grader to sit with me and read. We would read together for nearly an hour before school ended. This happened every day.
Within three months, I was speaking English.
That year, she created a video for her next class. A way to show her rules, routines, and expectations. She gave me a speaking role in the video. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was her way of showing me how proud she was.
Every year after I left her classroom, I would stop by to visit her. Without fail, she would pause whatever the class was doing and say,
“Class, this is Jayre. She’s the girl in my rules video. She learned English in three months.”
She made me feel capable, seen, and very proud of myself.
And even now, I realize how much of my motherhood is shaped by that feeling. The belief that routines matter, that care doesn’t need to be loud, and that consistency can quietly change everything.
The home that shaped me
Around the same time in my life, there was another woman quietly shaping me. Even if neither of us knew it then.
I had a neighbor who was a stay at home mom. She welcomed me into her home with ease. She fed me, included me, and let me tag along on family outings and everyday errands. Once a week, she took her kids and me to the library to pick out books. It became my favorite routine.
Looking back now, I realize she showed me what care could look like inside a home. Not perfection but presence.
My household growing up was completely different. There were a lot of kids in the house, but my mom worked so much that I only saw her once or twice a month. Our home was busy and noisy, but it never really felt homey. Each sibling had a life of their own, and we didn’t connect in the way I longed for.
I think that’s why I bonded so deeply in her home.
Her house felt warm and intentional. I remember how she made every holiday and celebration feel special. Easter, Valentine’s Day, Halloween. She created decorations, little activities, and simple traditions for her kids. Fun projects that I didn’t just watch from the sidelines, but often got to participate in with them. Being there felt safe. It felt calm.
I loved her so much. And she trusted me too. She counted on me in small ways like walking her kids home if she needed help. That meant everything to me. Without realizing it at the time, she showed me what it looked like to build a home that held people gently.
What I carry into my home
Now that I’m a mother myself, these memories surfaced. In the anticipation I felt before reading to my baby. In the way I set up our home. In the routines I return to again and again. In the meals, the planning, the quiet intention behind our days.
I don’t think we become the parents we are overnight. I think we’re shaped slowly by the people who showed us care long before we knew we were watching.
And now, without trying to recreate anything perfectly, I find myself carrying those lessons forward into my own home ❤️