Five years.

It really doesn’t sound like that long.

Until I think about the fact that my almost-three-year-old daughter will be almost eight years old.

Eight.

That’s a full-blown kid.

Right now, we’re transitioning into a big-girl bed. We’re potty training. I’m getting excited listening to her learn to speak in full sentences. She still wants me to hold her. We read books before bed. We dance together and “shake our booties.”

And in five years, she’ll be nearing double digits.

I’m definitely going to cry about that.

When I Picture Her at Eight

I picture my daughter with beautiful, long, wavy blonde hair. Maybe it’ll still have the curls she has now.

I imagine she’ll be sarcastic, bold, silly and funny. She’ll be outgoing. She’ll be kind.

She’ll have friends she’s made at school and stories to tell me about them. I’m sure she’ll think she knows everything by then, too.

I hope we’re close.

I hope our relationship is fun and full of laughter. I hope we still read books before bed. I hope she still lets me hold her sometimes, whether that’s sitting in my lap or while I’m putting her to bed.

I hope we still dance together.

I hope we still “shake our booties.”

And if life looks anything like the picture I have in my head, she probably won’t be an only child anymore.

I can see her having two younger siblings.

She’ll be a great big sister. Helpful, loving, playing with them and looking out for them.

And, of course, she’ll probably be bossy as hell.

Some things probably won’t change.

But the thought of her being eight is insane to me.

That’s my baby.

Eight sounds so grown up when I’m looking at the little girl in front of me right now.

Maybe There Are More Babies

When I picture myself five years from now, I do picture more children.

Probably two.

And honestly?

That scares me almost as much as it excites me.

I imagine starting all over with babies. Pregnancy. Newborn nights. Diapers. Feedings. Toddlerhood.

I’m excited for all of it.

But I’m nervous, too.

I’m nervous about my mental health. I’m nervous about how I’ll handle postpartum. I’m nervous about adding more children while still making sure I’m being the mom my oldest needs me to be.

I don’t know how I’ll do mentally the next time around.

I hope I’ll handle it better.

And one of the biggest reasons I believe it could be different is because I won’t be doing it the same way.

I’ll have a partner.

Not just someone who happens to also be a parent.

A partner.

The Partner You Choose Matters

This is something motherhood taught me the hard way.

The partner you choose to go through all of this with is so important.

When I picture having another baby, I picture my husband’s life changing right alongside mine.

I don’t picture having to ask if I can shower while someone else gets to continue living their life normally.

I picture a partnership.

I picture him offering to keep the baby so I can go do something for myself.

I picture him asking, “Hey, is it okay if I go spend the evening with the guys?” instead of simply telling me he’s going.

I picture us finding people we trust with our children so we can still go out together.

Because I don’t want us to forget that underneath being Mom and Dad, we’re still us.

During pregnancy, I picture him taking care of me. Massaging me. Making sure I’m comfortable.

After birth, I picture him helping me into the shower.

Changing diapers.

Getting up for a late-night feeding because I was the one awake the night before.

Holding me through the tears—the happy ones and the sad ones.

Being there through postpartum instead of me feeling like I’m trying to survive it by myself.

Even writing that makes me emotional.

I’ve learned that the person you choose to build a family with matters more than I ever realized before becoming a mother.

There were times I was told I asked for too much.

That I was too picky.

But I knew what I was looking for was out there.

I knew I wasn’t asking for too much.

And I’m so glad I kept looking until I found my person.

What Does Our Life Actually Look Like?

I don’t picture some perfect, quiet house.

Actually, with three kids, I’m assuming it’ll be the exact opposite.

I picture chaos.

But loving chaos.

Silly chaos.

Fun chaos.

I picture a home that feels comfortable, safe, secure and full of love.

I want my children to know that home is their safe place.

I want them to grow up knowing they can come home.

That they can talk to us.

That they’re loved there.

I know I’ll make mistakes as their mother. I’ll lose my patience. I’ll say the wrong thing. I’ll probably have days where I go to bed replaying everything I could’ve handled differently.

But I want my children to grow up remembering how loved they were.

I want them to remember time spent together.

Family movie nights where we make a giant bed on the floor and eat popcorn.

Days at the beach.

Going out on my parents’ boat.

Maybe camping.

Fishing.

We might not take a bunch of big trips while they’re young, and that’s okay.

Because when I picture the childhood I want to give them, most of it isn’t happening somewhere far away.

It’s happening at home.

Actually, when I tried to picture a random Saturday five years from now, that’s exactly what I saw.

My oldest is almost eight.

Maybe we have two other little ones.

We’re outside in the backyard.

My oldest is swinging on the swing set. One of her younger siblings is playing with her or digging around in the sandbox. My husband is doing yard work.

And I’m watching after the kids.

Nothing huge is happening.

It’s just a random Saturday.

But somehow, that’s the dream.

And Who Am I?

I think sometimes when we picture our future as mothers, it’s easy to picture everyone else first.

The kids.

The husband.

The house.

The family.

But where am I in all of it?

Five years from now, I see myself as a wife.

I see myself happier.

I hope I’ve moved up in my career. Maybe I’m a supervisor or manager.

Hopefully I’ve finally gotten the Yukon with the third row I’ve been telling my boyfriend I want.

Because apparently my five-year plan includes enough children that I need to upgrade the vehicle, too.

I hope I have more mom friends.

I want people who want to spend time with us. Friends where all the kids can get together and play while the adults actually get to have adult conversations—or at least attempt to before somebody starts crying.

I hope I’m still writing.

I’d really love to have my first novel written by then.

And I hope Raw Mothering has grown.

Honestly, Raw Mothering has been on the back burner lately. Life gets busy.

But five years from now, I would love to have another mom helping me run it. Someone writing posts, helping with social media and helping turn it into more of the community I’ve always pictured it becoming.

But there’s something else I hope for myself, too.

I hope I don’t lose myself completely.

I’ve struggled with that since becoming a mother.

So as much as I want another baby—and maybe another one after that—I want to keep working on myself through it.

I don’t want Mom, Wife, Employee and every other title I carry to completely swallow the woman underneath them.

I want there to still be some me left, too.

The Things I Can’t Predict

Of course, this is all just a picture.

I have no idea what my life will actually look like five years from now.

I don’t know how many more children I’ll have.

I don’t know how I’ll do mentally after having another baby or whether having the partner and support I needed the first time will make as big of a difference as I believe it will.

I don’t know what co-parenting will look like.

Maybe my oldest will still live with me full-time and spend a couple weekends a month with her dad.

Maybe he’ll have her some weekdays.

Maybe we’ll eventually be doing 50/50.

I don’t know.

I don’t know where my writing will take me.

I don’t know what will happen with Raw Mothering.

There are probably things coming in the next five years that I couldn’t predict if I tried.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because if motherhood has taught me anything, it’s that you can stress yourself sick trying to figure out how everything is going to work out.

And somehow…

It just does.

It always works out.

What I’d Tell My Eight-Year-Old Daughter

If I could sit down with my eight-year-old daughter right now, I’d probably start by telling her she needs to take it a little easier on her mom.

She put me through enough in her younger years with that stubbornness.

But then I’d tell her how much she means to me.

I’d tell her I love her more than anything.

I’d tell her that no matter how many children I have, she will always have my heart.

She will always be my baby.

I’d tell her how much she taught me about being a mother.

Because all of my firsts as a mom belong to her.

The first time I held my baby.

The first sleepless nights.

The first milestones.

The first time I wondered if I was doing any of this right.

The first time I learned how deeply another human being could matter to me.

My firsts will always be with her.

And I’ll always keep that close to me.

If Five-Years-From-Now Me Could Talk to Me

Maybe instead of trying to predict everything, there’s another way I can look at this.

What if the woman I become five years from now could sit beside me today?

What would she tell me?

I think her letter would go something like this:

---

Hey self,

It’s been five years that have gone by crazy fast, even while some moments felt so slow.

First, I just want to let you know something.

You’re already telling yourself, “This too shall pass.”

You’ve dealt with hard things. Becoming a new mom. Being a single mom. And then those toddler days really tested you.

There are days you cry.

Days you ask yourself if you’re really meant for this and if you can do it.

But while you’re reminding yourself that “this too shall pass,” try to enjoy it, too.

Try to embrace it.

Soak in those lovely moments.

The toddler snuggles.

The kisses.

Her little silly moments.

Remember, she’s still little.

You’ll miss her being this little.

Second, don’t worry so much about the kind of mom you’ll be when you have more kids.

You’re still doing amazing.

Especially with a great partner parenting with you.

Remember to take it easy on yourself and stop stressing the small stuff.

Being a mom isn’t meant to be easy.

Kids are difficult at any age.

Always try to see the light in the dark moments.

It’s not all bad.

Third, quit feeling like you have to have it all together or follow a path because it’s “what’s expected.”

You create your own path.

Trust the process.

Fourth, don’t rush life.

These next five years go fast.

Enjoy it.

Soak it all in.

And lastly, I’d love to let you know…

YOU WERE RIGHT about finding and waiting for the right partner.

You were never being “too picky,” especially when you were trying to find someone to build your family with.

Be proud of yourself for being strong enough to let connections and relationships go when they weren’t right for you.

Because it works out.

And you were never wrong for that.

---

Five years from now, I have no idea how much of this I’ll get right.

Maybe I’ll read this and laugh at some of the things I was so sure about.

Maybe life will look completely different.

But I hope I can look around and say:

I have the family and all the love I ever wanted.

For now, though, she’s not eight.

She’s almost three.

She’s learning full sentences. We’re potty training. She’s moving into her big-girl bed. She still wants books before bed and sometimes wants me to hold her.

We still dance and “shake our booties.”

So maybe five-years-from-now me is right.

I don’t need to rush to find out how the story turns out.

I’m still living the part I’m going to miss.