My Kids Don’t Need a Perfect Mother, They Need a Present One

There’s a version of you that your children remember.
Not the one who got everything right.
The one who looked them in the eye.
Who laughed when something spilled.
Who showed up: not as a machine, but as a human being.

That version doesn’t come from perfection.
It comes from presence.

But what if presence feels far away?

If you're carrying too much.
If your sleep is fractured.
If you're juggling the invisible load like it’s your job (because it is).
You might be moving through the days: feeding, cleaning, organising, problem-solving: without ever really landing in them.

This isn’t about guilt.
It’s about the reality so many mothers live in:
A body doing, a mind racing, a heart scattered.

And still:
You crave a way to come back to the centre.
To meet your people with softness, not survival mode.

That’s where the trail enters.

Not as an escape.
But as reconnection.

Nature doesn’t ask anything of you.

There are no emails on the ridgeline.
No lunchboxes to pack in the eucalypt shade.
No performance metrics on a muddy singletrack.

Just your breath.
Your body.
The tempo of your steps finding a rhythm that’s yours.

And something remarkable happens.
Not because you’ve ticked off movement.
But because you’ve dropped into a nervous system state where you can feel again.
Where your shoulders lower.
Your mind clears.
And suddenly, the noise inside quiets.

What Presence Looks Like, Off the Trail

This isn’t about becoming Zen 24/7.
This is about capacity.

Even 30 minutes of movement in nature can shift your physiology:

• Lower cortisol
• Increased heart rate variability
• Stabilised mood
• Improved cognitive flexibility

In practical terms?
You return to your people with more.
More patience.
More softness.
More ability to handle the chaos, without becoming it.

And if trail time still feels out of reach, this message is for you, too.
Presence can begin with 5 minutes of breath at the back door. A lap of the clothesline. A moment where you place your hand on your chest and just feel yourself.

They Don’t Need the Perfect You

They need the version of you who’s grounded enough to see them.
Who can witness without fixing.
Who can model what it means to meet your own needs without guilt.

I remember the first time I tried to run after having my son, he was screaming in the carrier, I was leaking milk, and my legs felt like lead. I didn’t finish the run. But something shifted: I’d chosen myself, even just for a few minutes. And that mattered.
Sometimes, it’s not about how far you go.
It’s that you go at all.

Reflection Prompt

Where do I confuse perfection with presence?
What’s one small way I can return to myself this week, without apology?