Why Is It Harder to Make Mom Friends As an Adult, and What Actually Helps
I’m leaning against a playground rail on a Tuesday morning, lukewarm coffee in my chipped “World’s Okayest Mom” tumbler, chalk stain crusted on the toe of my old white sneakers. My 3-year-old is halfway up the twisty slide, yelling for me to watch, and the mom standing next to me has a boy the exact same age. We’ve done this dance before: exchange nods, comment on how unseasonably warm October is, ask what preschool our kids go to, then… nothing. We both pull out our phones and scroll while the kids play. I leave 20 minutes later, kicking myself a little for not asking for her number, again.
I moved here two years ago from the city for my husband’s job promotion. My closest friends from college still live in Brooklyn apartments, most don’t have kids yet, and the ones that do are three hours away. Growing up, I watched my mom build her best friend group at the elementary school bus stop. They carpooled, had barbecues every Memorial Day, borrowed sugar, wine and band-aids from each other all the time. It seemed so easy, like it just happened without trying. So why does it feel so hard now?
I tried all the expected things first: joined the neighborhood mom Facebook group, signed up for mommy and me yoga, showed up to weekly library storytime. I went to a group playdate last spring, and half the moms were talking about their upcoming European vacations and how their nannies handle potty training. I stood there holding my store-bought chocolate chip cookies feeling like I didn’t fit. Another time, I talked to a mom for 20 minutes about how we both hate the mandatory preschool singing circle, then my kid ran off with a librarian’s sticker book. By the time I chased him down and got back, she’d left. I kicked myself for a week for not asking for her number when I had the chance.
I started bringing it up in casual chats with other moms I barely knew, and almost all of them said the same thing: it’s not just me. Back when our parents were having kids, most people stayed in the town they grew up in, so you already had a built-in group of friends who were having kids around the same time. Now, most of us move for jobs, starting families far from where we grew up, so we have to build that network from scratch. Everyone’s schedules are scattered too: some work full time, some work part time, some stay home, nap schedules shift every few weeks, it’s almost impossible to find a time that works for everyone. And the biggest thing, I think: after taking care of a kid all day, you have maybe an hour of spare energy for yourself. Forcing small talk with a stranger feels like a work meeting, not a fun break. I’d rather go home and sit on my couch in sweatpants and watch bad TV than force a two-hour coffee date with someone I don’t know. That’s just honest.
Over the last year, I’ve tested a few small things that have actually worked, no big “put yourself out there” pep talk required. First, I stopped suggesting big, formal plans. Instead of asking “want to get coffee next week sometime,” which feels like a huge commitment that requires cleaning your house and picking out a nice outfit, I suggest something low-stakes that I’m already doing. If we’re both at the playground at 10 am, I’ll say “We’re grabbing glazed donuts from the shop down the street after this, want to come along? No pressure if you have other plans.” No one has to rearrange their whole day, it’s just a 20 minute stop that doesn’t feel like an interview. I did that with the regular Tuesday playground mom a few weeks back, and she said yes. We sat on a park bench eating donuts, talked about how our kids both refuse to eat anything but chicken nuggets, and it was way less awkward than I thought it’d be.
Second, I stopped trying to be perfect. I used to lie and say my kid sleeps through the night when I’m asked, because I didn’t want to sound like I’m complaining. Now I just say “He still wakes me up twice a week asking for apple juice, I’m running on about four hours of sleep most nights.” Being a little vulnerable cuts through all the fake small talk faster than anything. Most moms will immediately agree and share their own messy story, and that’s when you actually connect, not when you’re bragging about how great your kid’s soccer skills are.
Third, I stopped expecting every connection to turn into a lifelong best friend. I have one mom friend who works full time as an ER nurse, our schedules barely line up, we only meet for coffee every six weeks and text once a month. But when I had the stomach bug last month and my husband was out of town, I texted her, and she dropped off Gatorade and crackers on my porch in 10 minutes. That’s enough. It doesn’t have to be a weekly thing to count as a friend.
Last week, I was back at the playground, and I saw that mom I’d talked to a year ago who loved hating the singing circle. I didn’t overthink it, I just walked over and said “We’re going to the small pumpkin patch down on Route 12 this Saturday, it’s five dollars a kid, they have a hayride. If you guys want to come, no pressure.” She pulled out her phone and put her number in my contacts, and said they’d love to go.
I don’t know if it’ll turn into a regular thing. We might go and run out of small talk after an hour, or our kids might fight over the same tiny pumpkin and we’ll leave awkwardly. But it’s more than I had a year ago. I still have quiet moments at the playground scrolling my phone, I still leave some interactions kicking myself for being too awkward. It’s not easy, and it doesn’t happen automatically like it did for my mom. But small, low-stakes steps are working, one donut and one pumpkin patch at a time.
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