A mother of multiple children quickly learns that each child is unique, with needs as distinct as their personalities. Meeting those needs requires constant adjustment, making motherhood an adaptive, knowledge-building practice shaped as much by intuition as by experience. This learning process demands flexibility, openness, and a willingness to embrace each lesson in real time—and we do it all in the hope of guiding our children toward a future self that is whole, healthy, and able to thrive in our inevitable absence.

From the very beginning, my children showed me who they were. At her 12-week scan, Sofia’s tiny legs kicked off the walls of my womb—my body was her personal trampoline. I felt her first movements at just 13 weeks. She remained active throughout my pregnancy, she frequently got hiccups which would cause my great big belly to jolt all on its own every few seconds. At my 16-week scan with Max, I told my OB, Dr. Cooper, that I was sure my placenta was rooted at the front of my belly—which he confirmed. “How did you know that?” he asked. I explained that I couldn’t feel him kicking yet and guessed he was pressing against the placenta rather than the front of my belly. “WOW,” he replied. A mother knows her body.

I met my babies before they were born. Both Max and Sofia began teaching me about themselves as I carried them. In my dreams, they would reveal glimpses of who they were becoming. Sofia chose her own middle name—Colette, a French name I later learned means "victory of the people." True to her Libra nature, she is a tender-hearted girl who cares deeply about fairness, justice, and beauty. One of her most heartbreaking moments at school happened while watching a giant furry moth lay its eggs on a plant in the schoolyard—only to witness a group of boys kill it for fun. She came home deeply troubled by their cruelty. We grieved together, sharing our frustration, and then made a plan: she would talk to her teacher, hoping to inspire a lesson on respecting nature.

Maxwell also communicated with me before he was born, he told me about his big big feelings, and prepared me to meet him in his own way. Max is a very social and affectionate boy, he thrives in connection with others. The pandemic isolation was especially hard on him. One morning, as we sat by the front window playing, we saw another little boy walking with his grandmother. The boy waved, and Max lit up. "He waved at me, Mom!" His eyes filled with tears. We ran outside, and standing 20 feet apart, the boys beamed waving and saying hi over and over.

Sofia was born without any medical intervention, because I wanted to really know what childbirth was like. I sure did find out. During the active part of labor I felt like a jaguar, I growled, and roared her into existence. The nurses were pleading with me to 'be quiet,' because I was scaring the other mothers. But roaring was the most effective form of pain management for me. With each roar, the pain disappeared and I could push. Eventually, I hit a breaking point and I decided she just needed to 'come out,' and I wasn’t going to stop pushing until she was here. Her arrival brought on a euphoric high in the place where all the pain had been. It was blissful relief. When I gave birth to Max, the pain felt even more intense, and I asked for the epidural. This time the absence of pain allowed the natural waves of oxytocin to flood my body, leaving me euphoric—almost high on ecstasy—throughout the entire delivery process. I never felt the urgency to 'get him out' like I had with Sofia; instead, I followed Dr. Cooper’s instructions to push. As Max began to emerge, Dr. Cooper suddenly shouted, 'Stop pushing!' and I froze. The umbilical cord was wrapped around Maxwell’s neck, and pushing was tightening it. Because I was calm I could stop, and wait for Dr. Cooper to gently slip the cord over his head and untangle him before the last push.

As a baby, Sofia preferred constant contact She nursed, snoozed, and took in the world while strapped to my body for the first few months of her life, we were like kangaroos. But when Max arrived just 23 months after his sister, I couldn’t keep up with a newly walking, running, and climbing toddler—with an infant strapped to my body. I decided a baby swing might be a good helper. After testing out a few, we found one Max seemed to enjoy—thankfully, it was also the cheapest option! Max would happily swing while Sofia and I played on the floor in front of him. He loved that swing so much and spent so much time happily rocking next to the play area, that if Sofia wanted my attention while I was holding her brother she would say “mama, put the baby here.” while pointing at the swing. When it was Max’s turn for focused attention, I’d set Sofia up on our king-sized bed with books, crayons, and an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba, where she would very happily lounge.

Watching them grow, I see how the babies I once carried still exist within them—how their earliest tendencies have deepened. Max still loves a good swing, and Sofia fiercely protects her “quiet alone time,” sprawling out on her bed to draw on her iPad, read books, or watch anime. Their personalities, remind me that a child’s selfhood is not something we create—it’s something we witness and nurture. Attachment Theory tells us that when a child's needs are consistently met with love and care, they grow into what psychologists call 'emotionally secure' adults. Through study and practice I’ve learned that Nature gives us the blueprint, but Nurture is what builds the foundation.

Attachment Theory provides four attachment styles or patterns that describe how people form and maintain relationships. According to this theory, attachment styles are shaped in early caregiving and influence how individuals experience trust, intimacy, and closeness in relationships throughout their lives.  The four attachment styles are; secure, anxious, avoidant, and disorganized, each shaping relational dynamics in distinct ways. Secure attachment fosters trust and stability, while anxious attachment breeds fear of abandonment and emotional hypersensitivity. Avoidant attachment manifests as emotional distance and a deep reliance on self-sufficiency, whereas disorganized attachment reflects a push-pull dynamic of fear and unpredictability, often rooted in inconsistent or traumatic caregiving.

Stan Tatkin, PsyD, MFT—a clinician, researcher, and educator—presents the first three attachment styles through distinct archetypes:

Anchors: Individuals with a secure attachment style who are comfortable with intimacy and autonomy.

Islands: Those with an avoidant attachment style tend to be independent and may struggle with closeness.

Waves: Individuals with an anxious attachment style who are often preoccupied with relationships and seek high levels of intimacy.

The fourth attachment style, disorganized attachment, is deeply explored by therapist and attachment expert Dr. Diane Poole Heller, whose work offers a more nuanced understanding of attachment theory and trauma resolution. Heller emphasizes that attachment styles are not fixed; instead, they exist on a spectrum, often blending elements of all four styles and evolving over time based on the health of our relationships. According to her research, individuals with anxious or avoidant attachment can become more secure through consistent, healthy relationships. In fact, she argues that true healing from anxious, avoidant, or disorganized attachment happens only within secure, supportive relationships, where past patterns are unlearned and replaced with healthier, more adaptive ones.

From a young age, I recognized that my childhood experiences were far from ideal, but it was my own parenting journey that provided the revelation of just how unprepared my parents were to raise a securely attached child. At just 18 and 21 when I was born, they lacked the resources and knowledge necessary for intentional parenting. Without access to the wealth of information available today, their primary guide was their own upbringing—relying on inherited practices rather than informed strategies.Just before the pandemic shutdown in 2020, my husband and I faced a relational crisis that forced us to confront a difficult truth—we had not been raised right—we had inherited patterns that limited our emotional growth and well-being, and therefore we were not life-ing to our full potential. When the world shut down, we used the money that was previously going to child-care expenses to pay for intensive therapy—both individual and couples’ therapy—determined to break those cycles.

At the start of therapy, we took attachment quizzes to assess our relational patterns. My results showed a dominant pattern of anxious, avoidant, and disorganized attachment—a state I would describe as oscillating between extreme self-sufficiency (ghosting) and excessive dependence (clinginess), unable to find a middle ground. As my husband and I embarked on our therapy journeys in tandem, we learned how to reparent ourselves, to become better parents to our children, and be in a relationship with each other in healthier and more vulnerable ways. A year into this work, my attachment assessment had shifted from predominantly insecure to mostly secure.

Understanding my attachment patterns was a pivotal step in reshaping not only my parenting but also my relationships and sense of self. While attachment theory provided a framework for identifying how early experiences shape relational instincts, therapy became a classroom where I learned to unlearn, rewrite, and reclaim healthier relational patterns. Through this process, I realized that healing isn't just about acknowledging the past—it’s about choosing to engage differently in the present. As my husband and I worked toward greater emotional security, we began to reparent ourselves, cultivating the kind of care, trust, and stability we hoped to model for our children. This journey of self-exploration and intentional growth ultimately transformed the way I understand mothering—not just as an act of caregiving, but as a practice that can lead to generational healing. My children have taught me not only to trust my instincts and listen to my inner knowing but also that their wellness depends on me doing so. Motherhood has given me the chance to heal my inner niña, restoring the parts of myself that were once neglected. In shaping a parenting model different from the one I knew, I have become the mother I needed.

But the lessons of mothering extend far beyond the home. When I look toward the rest of my life—whether in creative work, teaching, or community—I see that true care is not about treating everyone the same, nor is it about imposing expectations shaped by past experiences. Instead, it is about learning to recognize and honor individual needs, responding with generosity, and cultivating environments where people, like children, can grow in their own time and in their own way.

My children led me to those teachings, and toward a nurturing praxis—where caring for children, ideas, or relationships—is an act of attention, instinct, patience, and trust. The work is about tending to what is present and providing conditions for it to flourish.