I’ve been friends with my best friend for almost twenty years. We met in high school, and we grew up together. We’ve watched each other move through different seasons of life, make different choices, and end up in very different places, yet somehow we’ve always stayed close. Even living 200 miles apart.
Nothing has highlighted those differences more than becoming mothers.
If we tried to take more opposite paths into parenting, I’m not sure we could. I struggled to get pregnant. I carried hope carefully, and then I lost it – twice. Those losses were quiet, but they changed me in ways that don’t ever really go away.
She stopped birth control and got pregnant the very first cycle.
I was genuinely happy for her. And at the same time, I felt that familiar, painful question surface: why not me? That was one of my first real lessons: happiness and grief can exist at the same time. You can hold both, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Pregnancy followed a similar pattern.
Both of mine were hard in a way that completely took me down. I was sick and not the kind you power through, but the kind that makes even getting through the day feel overwhelming. Physically and mentally, it was a lot.
She had symptoms too, but they landed differently. Where I felt consumed by it, she kept moving. It looked lighter on her, even when I knew it wasn’t easy. And honestly, I admired that about her.
Delivery looked different, too. She had a vaginal birth and talked about how empowering it felt. I had two C-sections. Painful. Clinical. Necessary. And terrifying. There wasn’t some magical moment for me, just relief that it was over and that we were okay.
Then came motherhood.
We both became moms during COVID, a time that already felt isolating. But our realities were very different. I had no family nearby. No built-in support. Just my husband and me in a quiet house, trying to figure it out with a newborn.
I developed postpartum anxiety that touched everything. I worried constantly about what could go wrong, and at one point, I went almost three days without sleep. I knew I needed help, and I reached for it. Medication wasn’t optional for me. It was survival. It’s what got me through that first year.
She gave birth during an incredibly scary and isolating time, too – even earlier in the pandemic, before I did. She was alone in many ways, navigating new motherhood in a world that felt uncertain and closed off. She did have family nearby, which I remember feeling envious of at the time. And still, she struggled. She experienced postpartum depression, but carried it differently. She tried to handle it quietly and privately, as something she felt she needed to manage on her own. Where I felt able to say, “I’m not okay,” she felt society’s pressure to push through it, to keep going, to downplay how she was feeling.
Eventually, she did seek help, and this is something I am still so incredibly proud of her for.
As the kids got older, the differences didn’t fade. If anything, they became more noticeable.
My kids started daycare early, and not because I wanted them to, but because I had to work and travel. Our days start early, and we thrive on routine. We need structure. We need consistency. Our house is loud, messy, and completely disorganized. The TV is hardly ever on, there are toys everywhere, and it already feels chaotic enough without adding more noise. And somehow, in the middle of all of that, there’s a lot of laughter and big personalities.
Her mornings start slower. Later. Quieter. She’s a small business owner, which means her days are long and full, even if they don’t start as early. The success of her business is always with her, a steady presence in the background, and it shapes her days just as much as my work shapes mine. Her home is generally calmer and tidier, with quiet giggles and softer conversations.
Even our kids reflect it.
My daughter is the girliest of girly girls. She is sparkles, dresses, and has big emotions worn proudly on her sleeve. Her daughter is dinosaurs and dirt, no frills and all imagination. My son is pure chaos. He has zero fear, full send, 110% of the time. Her younger daughter? The girly girl. Somehow it all balances out.
Our parenting philosophies are just as different.
In our house, the rules are simple: be kind, big feelings are welcome, and we talk about them. We feel things loudly here. The happy, the sad, the frustrated. If we’re feeling it, we name it. And sometimes that naming happens at full, max volume.
She grew up in a home where emotions were handled more quietly, and that shows up in her parenting. Feelings are very much present in her house. They’re just expressed with less volume. More often in calm conversations, quiet check-ins, and private moments rather than big, outward displays.
The differences show up everywhere. Screen time, doctors, mental health, medication, vacations, holidays, birthday parties. What feels important in my house might feel unnecessary in hers, and vice versa.
And the truth is, neither of us is right. Neither of us is wrong. We’re just two families shaped by different backgrounds, priorities, and ways of loving our kids.
I see time with my children as fleeting. Even on the hardest days, I feel the clock ticking and want to soak it all in. She’s been honest with me. The younger years are hard for her. She prefers the older stages, when kids are more independent and predictable. Two different perspectives. Both completely valid.
And yet, some things never change. Our love for our children. The respect we have for each other. And the ability to laugh, vent, and share a glass of wine like only two friends who have known each other this long can.
I cherish our friendship. The history, the shared experiences, and having someone who knows where I’ve been and why I am the way I am. Parenting may look different in our homes, but real friendship has room for all of it.
If there’s one thing motherhood has taught me, it’s that there’s no single right way to do this. There’s just the way that works for your family, shaped by your experiences, your support system, and the season you’re in. I’m grateful for a friendship that’s made space for all of it. The differences, the hard conversations, the mutual respect, and the laughter that still come so easily. We may parent in parallel, but we’ve grown together, and after twenty years, that feels like its own kind of magic.
