Analysis Paralysis and Notes from the Other Side of Becoming a Mom

An overdue check-in, learning to move forward without having it all figured out, and thoughts on why clarity doesn’t always come before the leap.

Hi. It’s been a minute.

I’ve been deep in what my friend perfectly called “analysis paralysis.” In the pockets of free time I’ve had, I’ve been querying agents for a children’s book I wrote (more on that soon) and, of course, juggling my full-time job.

I’ve had big plans for The Autogrill. Dream guests I’ve wanted to interview and pieces I’ve wanted to write, but somewhere along the way, I convinced myself I couldn’t send anything out until everything was perfectly lined up.

At the same time, I’ve been swimming in the discourse of “what makes a good Substack?” Should it be service-oriented? Personal and reflective? Focused? Niche? There are so many, too many, hot takes, but I keep coming back to a simple piece of advice from a brilliant friend and editor: Just write. And write what you know.

What I know is existential spirals and identity shifts. So we’ll start with the biggest pivot I never saw coming: having a baby.

I was terrified to become a mom.

Not just nervous. Terrified. The kind of fear that sat in my chest and made everything feel too big, too unknown. I didn’t have the “mom gene,” or at least, that’s what I told myself.

I mean, I had hyperemesis so bad I lived in the fetal position for months, crying over crackers and ginger tea and seasick wristbands that absolutely did not work so do not waste your money. I had prenatal depression, which made me question everything about everything. Add gestational diabetes to the mix, and the whole experience felt like a cruel joke. But my fear didn’t start with any of that; it started long before.

I never saw myself in the women who just knew they wanted to be moms. I didn’t have the patience of my own mother, or the calm presence of my grandmother. I wasn’t like my sister, a beloved preschool teacher whose class parents literally compete to get into. I wasn’t like my friends who cooed at babies and had Pinterest boards titled “nursery inspo” before they even met their partners. I just have never vibed with kids. My niece was the one exception. I adore her, but even so, I feel like a second-string aunt compared to my sister, who just instinctively gets her in a way I don’t.

So when I became pregnant, I thought: Am I actually capable of this? Will I ruin this kid? Will I resent this life?

Then he was here, and something shifted. And as a skeptic who usually rolls her eyes when people say this, I hate to admit it, but… they were all right about how it’s different when it’s your kid.

The instincts came. The patience came. I found myself knowing how to comfort him, how to read his cries, how to soothe him without needing to reference Taking Cara Babies or Moms on Call. It wasn’t automatic, but it came. I am now unreasonably obsessed with every weird thing my son does. The other day, he sneezed so hard he scared himself, and I clapped like he discovered fire. You will hype your own kid like they’re a genius for flailing their arms or making eye contact and then envision their Harvard acceptance. It’s wild.

I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone this much. It cracked something open in me, especially after years of feeling insecure and constantly searching for love or validation outside of myself. And still, I wish I hadn’t pressured myself to get pregnant.

That truth sits next to the joy. I wish I had honored my own needs more. I wish I had taken more time to decide, or even allowed myself the space to wonder if I wanted this life at all. I wish I had been as patient with the course of my own life as I am now with my son. I love him fiercely and entirely. But I also love slow mornings with hot coffee that I’m not worried on spilling on anyone. I love spontaneous trips, binge-watching TV, rotting in bed, and doing nothing.

If I had waited, or been more honest with myself sooner, maybe I could’ve spared myself ten months of fear, anxiety, and internal chaos. But maybe that’s the real lesson: we have to give ourselves permission not to have it all figured out. To sit with the uncertainty. To make room for both fear and possibility at the same time.

If you're scared to become a mom, or scared to admit you might not want to be one at all, here’s what I want you to know: You’re not broken or selfish and you don’t lack anything. You are simply aware. And that awareness is a gift, because it means you're thinking about what kind of life you want to build, not just what you’re told to build.

I’m not a therapist or a life coach and I’m certainly not an expert as I’ve only been a mom for 7 months, I’m just one confused girl talking to another. But if I could go back and talk to the girl with a positive test and a heart full of apprehension, I wouldn’t say, “Don’t do it.” I’d say that it’s okay to be scared.

The biggest lie we’re told is that we have to have certainty to make a decision. But most of life, especially parenthood, is built on soft ground. It’s okay if you don’t feel “ready.” No one really is. Give yourself the grace to decide slowly, the love to choose yourself, and the honesty to admit what you really want, even if it changes. Even if it scares you.

You are not selfish for questioning. You are wise. You are not broken for hesitating. You are thoughtful. And whether you choose to become a mom or not, your life can be full, beautiful, and deeply yours.

Thanks for reading. More from people I admire soon.
- L