Motherhood isn’t one feeling, it’s all of them.

Joy. Grief. Guilt. Pride. Love.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

The small moments pass.
The memories stay.

So take the photo.
Eat the ice cream.
Stay a little longer.

I was scrolling through Instagram the other day, looking at photos of my daughters, and I felt it—pure happiness. Thankful. Lucky.

Lucky for this life we’ve built in Red Hook. For our family. For the business. For all of it.

Then I went down a rabbit hole and reread all of my past Mother’s Day posts… and cried.

Not just because this year has been hard in its own way, but because I saw something clearly:

I’ve been a good mom.
An honest mom.

Honest about how hard motherhood can be, and how beautiful it is, too.

If you don’t feel like scrolling through years of Instagram, I’ve gathered all my Mother’s Day reflections here in one place. Start with this year, then keep reading.

Motherhood isn’t one feeling, it’s all of them.

Joy. Grief. Guilt. Pride. Love.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

The small moments pass.
The memories stay.

So take the photo.
Eat the ice cream.
Stay a little longer.

• 2026: Take More Photos, Eat More Ice Cream
• 2025: Motherhood, Grief, and Loss
• 2024: Learning to Be a Mom to Daughters
• 2023: Where It Began—It Takes a Village

This Year: Take More Photos, Eat More Ice Cream

As a mom in 2026, I feel good. Really good.

This past year, we traveled to London and Argentina, spent time upstate, and just… were together. And I keep coming back to how much that matters.

Because when I think about my own childhood, it’s not the everyday moments I remember most clearly—it’s the trips. Hershey Park. A log cabin hotel. Roller coasters with my dad. Just being with my family.

That’s what I want for Penny and Rosie.

We go to Argentina every year. The girls love it. I love it. It’s more than a vacation—it’s connection, identity, belonging. Watching them move through that world so naturally—it does something to you as a mom. It feels like success.

And Sebastian—you make it easier for me to be a good mom because you’re always there. Even if you breathe a little too loudly through your nose. I still love you.

So that’s my Mother’s Day message this year:

Take more photos.
Eat more ice cream.
The memories are the whole point.

Penny and Rosie—you are the best part of my day. I love you.

2025 · Motherhood, Grief, and the First Year Without My Mom

This was my first Mother’s Day without my mom—and it was harder than I expected.

There’s a quiet emptiness that shows up in the in-between moments. Sitting alone in the car, reaching to call her. Laughing at something Sebastian does and realizing she’s the only one who would fully get it.

She always answered the phone the same way:
“Hi Chris!”
Like she’d been waiting all day.

I miss that so much.

She was endlessly proud of me—of how hard I worked, of everything we built. She never even wanted to burn the candles I made; she just wanted to keep them, like a shrine.

Now, I find healing in Penny and Rosie—their hugs, their joy, the way they need me. Maybe I hold on a little tighter these days. Maybe that’s just how I cope.

What I do know is this: My mom was strong. She worked until retirement, cared for my dad, and rebuilt her life in South Carolina. That kind of strength stays with you.

So today, I celebrate her. I miss her. I love her.

And I send love to anyone feeling that quiet ache this Mother’s Day.

2024 · Learning to Be a Mom to Daughters

When I first found out I was pregnant, I secretly hoped for a boy.

Not because I didn’t want a girl—but because I was scared.

Scared of not being enough.
Scared of not knowing how to guide her.
Scared of getting it wrong.

And then Penelope Jo was born—and everything changed instantly.

That fear turned into love.

Now, with two daughters and years of motherhood behind me, I see it differently. The fears still surface, but they don’t define me.

What matters is showing up with honesty, love, and care.

And we’re more than alright—we’re happy, learning together every day.

I am a mom. I have two daughters. I love them more than anything in the world.

I also love my job.

And like so many working moms, I often feel like I’m supposed to work as if I don’t have kids—and parent as if I don’t work.

It’s a constant push and pull. Guilt, joy, exhaustion, pride—all in one day.

But I’ve learned this:

I’m not alone. And neither are you.

We’re all trying to raise happy, loved children while building lives that fulfill us, too.

And maybe that’s what “having it all” actually means.

Not perfection—support.

Because it truly takes a village.