The Glass Child: Motherhood Fears, Healing, and Learning to Love Well

As I keep writing book two of Beautiful Wilderness, I’m realizing how much of my own heart is finding its way onto the page. The story opens with Jane discovering she’s pregnant—and even though it should feel like pure joy, fear rises up just as fast. Not because she doesn’t want the baby—she does—but because she’s never had a real example of genuine love. The adults in her life didn’t teach her how to feel safe and loved—quite frankly, they were some of the worst parents a fictional character could have. Now Jane is staring at motherhood wondering, What if I don’t know how to give what I never received?

The truth is, that fear didn’t come from nowhere. It came from me.

This aspect of Jane’s personality comes from my own fears of motherhood. I didn’t get pregnant with my first child for several years after getting married. At first, I was disappointed and worried I might not be able to give my husband children. But when we finally got pregnant, and we were both overjoyed, my insecurities surfaced just as quickly. I realized I was terrified. I wasn’t afraid of loving my baby. I was afraid of not knowing how to love well.

Now I didn't grow up in an abusive home. My parents loved all their kids and did their best. But being one out of eight children and a middle kid, I was the quiet one—the one who didn’t cause trouble or demand attention. Over time, I learned how to fade into the background.

I spent a lot of days alone in my room, playing with dolls. I don’t remember my parents being cruel; I remember being overlooked. All of us kids were at different ages and in different worlds, and I was “the kid sister.” So I learned to entertain myself. Once I was old enough, I’d walk around our small town and usually end up at the local library. Just to be alone, by myself, instead of alone in a room full of people.

I’m not saying I had a bad childhood. Again, my parents tried, I just know the loneliness I felt—even in a house full of people—buried itself deep. It became a quiet burden I didn’t fully pay attention to until I became a mother.

When I was pregnant, and even after I gave birth, I wanted to give my baby as much love and attention as I could. Some days I had to hold myself back, afraid I was smothering my child. That push and pull—giving enough love while also leaving room for independence—became a constant inner debate.

And when I had my second child, those fears tripled. The closer I got to delivery, the more I found myself spiraling into the same question: How can I give both of these children my love and attention without either of them feeling neglected?

My husband tells me I’m a wonderful mother, and when I look at my kids—healthy, growing, laughing, running to me for hugs—I can see the truth in that. The fear still whispers sometimes, but it doesn’t get the final word anymore. I’m learning that my background doesn’t disqualify me; it explains me. And every time I show up, every time I choose patience, affection, and presence, I’m giving my children something real. Maybe that’s what healing looks like—doing the work, loving them well, and finally believing that I can.