I Didn’t Feel Like a Real Writer Until I Became a Mom

Imposter syndrome is a bitch and for a long time, it ran the show.

I was writing for a news outlet—getting paid to write—and still didn’t believe I was a “real” writer. The title didn’t matter. The bylines didn’t matter. Something in me still felt like I was faking it. Like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s dream.

The shift didn’t happen until April. Not years ago. Not while working in media. It happened in the stillness of my own home, in the quiet hours of motherhood, when I started writing haikus again.

That’s when everything changed. Suddenly, I had something I needed to write about. Or rather—someone.

My daughter became my muse. She is my forever muse.

I started small. Short poems. Tiny thoughts. Little lines about fleeting moments that felt too important to forget. I wrote while she napped. I wrote while she slept beside me. I wrote when the ache of love was too big to hold in.

Then, one night, I wrote a poem that wasn’t a haiku. It poured out of me. I called it My Best Poem, not because of the structure or any literary device, but because it held a moment that moved me to tears.

I remember watching her sleep in the dark. How quiet she was, how peaceful, and just feeling everything: awe, gratitude, fragility, love. All of it.

For the first time in a long time, I sat with the moment instead of rushing past it. Writing helps me do that.

People talk about being present. How important it is to just be in the moment. Writing, for me, is the action of being present. It’s how I slow down, process, remember. How I breathe when life feels overwhelming.

Motherhood cracked something open in me. Not just emotionally—but creatively. Because here’s what no one really prepares you for:

You don’t know how to be a mom until you are one.

You can read every book. Hear every piece of advice. Get parenting tips from your family, your friends, strangers on the internet. But when that baby arrives? You’re on your own. It’s instinct. It’s chaos. It’s a guessing game every single day.

And yet—you are a mother.

Even when you don’t know what you’re doing. Even when you're scared. Even when you're learning as you go.

So one day I asked myself:

If I can be a mother without knowing how… why have I spent so long refusing to call myself a writer—even when I do know how?

That’s when it hit me. Imposter syndrome is a lie!

Writing doesn’t require permission. It doesn’t require validation. You don’t need a paycheck, a book deal, or a blue check to be a writer. You just need to write.

I’ve been writing for years. Journals, poems, notes I never shared.

I’ve written weird things. Spooky things. Raw things. I recently wrote a letter from the perspective of a deranged lighthouse keeper, and it gave me chills—and joy.

It reminded me how much I love exploring strange, lyrical narratives. That same energy lives in my Substack poetry series, The Dream Interpreter’s Memoir—a surreal, dream-drenched reflection on memory, motherhood, and resistance.

I’ve also written things no one’s seen. Pieces that are too personal. Too heavy. Too healing. They’re mine, and they matter, even if they never get published.

That’s the other thing motherhood reminded me: Some things are meant to be held close, while some things are meant to be shared. But both are real. Both are valid. Both count.

I may not have as much time as I used to. Sometimes I get caught up in breastfeeding, bedtime, and piles of laundry.

But when I write now, I do it with more clarity, more emotion, more truth than I ever did before.

Because I know who I am.

I’m a writer.

I’m a mom.

And somehow, they saved each other.

Author’s Note:

This piece was inspired by a question I saw on Threads that asked,

“What’s the hardest mindset shift you’ve had to make as a writer?”

It unraveled more than I expected—and brought me right back to the moment I truly claimed the title writer for the first time.

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Thanks for being here.