Sometimes I Regret Having Kids—What I’ve Learned as a Parent Educator
The baby was finally asleep at 3:15 a.m., but I was still sitting on the bathroom floor. My son had been up since midnight with a fever, my daughter had woken up twice because of the thunder, and I had just spent twenty minutes convincing a three-year-old that the shadow on the wall wasn’t a monster. The house was dark, the laundry was piled on a chair in the hallway, and I could hear the dog scratching at the bedroom door. I didn’t move. I just sat there and thought, very clearly: I wish I hadn’t had kids.
Then I felt guilty. Then I felt exhausted. Then I went back to bed, and nobody asked if I was okay.
That moment wasn’t a one-time thing. It came back during toddler tantrums, during homework battles, during the long afternoons when my daughter kept saying “Mommy, watch me” for the forty-seventh time. I love my children. I do. But there have been stretches of years when the weight of caring for them felt much heavier than the joy.
I teach parenting classes now. I’ve sat across from dozens of parents—most of them kind, patient, loving people—who have used the word “regret.” Usually in a whisper. Usually right after telling me how much they adore their child. They look at me like they’re confessing a crime. And I say the same thing every time: “That’s not unusual. Let’s talk about what that feeling is telling you.”
Because regret isn’t always about wanting to undo something. Sometimes it’s a signal that you’re running on empty. Sometimes it’s grief for the life you thought you’d have. Sometimes it’s just the honest result of being responsible for small humans while also trying to be a person yourself.
When I first admitted it to a friend, she said, “You don’t actually regret them. You regret being tired.” That helped. Not because it erased the feeling, but because it gave me somewhere to go. I couldn’t change the fact that I had children. I could change the tiredness. I could start making decisions based on what I needed, not just what I thought a good mother should do.
The first thing I did was unglamorous. I asked my husband to handle Thursday bedtime alone. Not “help me with bedtime” when he happened to be home. I wrote it on the calendar. I said, “Thursday is your night. I’m going to the library. I’m not going to call. Don’t call me unless someone is bleeding.” He looked surprised, but he did it. The first Thursday I sat in the library with no purpose and almost cried. Then I read a magazine. It wasn’t a transformation. It was just ninety minutes where nobody needed anything from me.
I also started saying things out loud that I had only whispered in my own head. When I felt myself about to snap, I told my kids, “I need a quiet minute. I’ll be right back.” Then I closed the bathroom door and sat on the edge of the tub. I didn’t do breathing exercises. I didn’t think positive thoughts. I just sat there. And when I came out, I said, “Okay. I’m ready.” My kids learned that I had limits. That was useful for them, too. They didn’t need a mother who never broke down. They needed a mother who could name what was happening and come back.
The hardest part was learning not to hide my frustration from them completely. I used to think good parents never let their children see them struggle. But when I tried to be calm all the time, I got colder. I stopped hugging them. I spoke in short sentences. I was physically there but not really present. They could feel that. Children are not stupid. They know when the adult in the room is somewhere else.
So I started using smaller, clearer phrases. Instead of snapping, “Just give me a second!” I would say, “I’m feeling really frustrated right now, and I don’t want to yell. I’m going to take a break.” Sometimes I did yell first. Then I would come back and say, “I lost my temper. That was loud, and I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m trying to do better.” That repair conversation did more than my perfect moments ever did.
In my classes, I ask parents to rate their day from one to ten. Not their day as a parent—just the day. The weather, the sleep, the work deadline, the school email. I ask them to notice how that number changes the way they interpret their child’s behavior. On a three-day, a spilled cup of milk feels like sabotage. On an eight-day, it’s just a mess. The child is the same. The parent is different.
That idea helped me separate “I regret having children” from “I am too depleted to enjoy my children.” It doesn’t make the feeling disappear. But it makes it less frightening. It gives me something concrete to do instead of spiraling.
I also changed my environment. I put a pair of noise-canceling headphones on a hook by the kitchen. I told my kids, “If the headphones are on, it means I need ten minutes unless someone is hurt or bleeding.” At first they tested it. Then they started using the same rule for themselves. My daughter would put on headphones during dinner when the room got too loud. That was not a failure. That was a skill.
I stopped saying yes to every school event. I deleted the parenting groups that made me feel inadequate. I started telling my body to rest when I could, instead of promising myself things would be better after the next milestone, the next school year, the next season. Because there is always another season. The exhaustion is not a phase you push through. It’s a condition you have to manage.
I still have days when I wonder what my life would look like if I had made different choices. I don’t think that’s abnormal anymore. I think it’s part of being honest. The trick is not to let that thought become the whole story.
When I feel that familiar wave of regret now, I try to lean into it instead of punishing myself. I ask, “Is this about them, or is this about me?” Usually it’s about me. I’m tired. I’m touched out. I’m bored of the same arguments about shoes and screens. And that’s okay. I don’t have to like every minute of parenting to be a good parent.
I’ve learned that the parents who are willing to say “I regret having children” are often the ones who are trying hardest. They’ve taken on too much. They’ve absorbed the idea that they should be endlessly patient and grateful. They’ve forgotten that they are allowed to have needs too.
So if you’ve ever had that thought—late at night, in the car, in the bathroom—I don’t think you’re broken. I think you’re overwhelmed. And I think the way out is not harder effort. It’s smaller expectations. It’s saying no to things that drain you. It’s giving yourself permission to be a slightly less, slightly more honest version of the parent you thought you’d be.
I still have hard days. I still have moments when the regret thoughts show up. But I’ve stopped treating them as a verdict. They’re just thoughts. They come, they sit with me, and eventually they pass. What helps most is knowing I’m not alone in them—and that I don’t have to be a different person to be the parent my kids need. I just have to be a little less tired. That part is still a work in progress.
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