Every night before my husband and I go to bed, we tiptoe into our kids’ rooms. We give them one last kiss, and then we straighten out their blankets and tuck the covers around them. And every single night since the twins were babies, I’ve put my hand on their backs, leaned in close, and listened for the sound of their breathing.

The habit started out of fear. For months after we brought our tiny newborns home from the hospital, I’d check on them incessantly. I’d pick them up, smell their sweet skin, and watch their chest rise and fall as they inhaled and exhaled. I needed to hold them just one more time before collapsing into my own bed for a few hours. My husband reassured me regularly, “They’re okay. They’re going to be okay,” and I knew—most likely—he was right. At the time, I didn’t think I was being an anxious parent, but looking back, I can see how fearful I really was—and often still am.

I’ve said it before, and it’s still true. Motherhood has revealed my own need to me more than any other experience in my life. I have never felt so in over my head than I have in the last five years. I overanalyze how I handle my twins’ fighting, I beat myself up for too much screen time, I fear the thousand more important and life-altering decisions to come in the next 15 years. And I’m just so tired. 

We haven’t had a hard road to growing our family. We haven’t even had hard babies for the most part. Sure, having two newborns at the same time proved quite the challenge. But even the most ordinary of parenting experiences puts me on my knees.