My son — our very own Renaissance Man, truly a “Jack of All Trades, Master of Many” — gave me a beautiful shout-out on social media. He thanked his father first and then me, crediting us with giving him the gifts and power so speak as an artist in various forms. The post was titled, “ART IS AN EXPRESSION !! SO EXPRESS”

Historically, I have often felt a pang of jealousy when reading my son’s posts on social media. He would often mention his father and the tremendous influence his dad has had on his life — and with good reason.

My son is, in so many ways, his father’s “mini-me.” He is a drummer, like his father. A drum maker, like his father. A drum teacher, like his father. A performer, visual artist, and musical director — all like his father. Their connection is undeniable, and I have always admired the bond they share.

Still, I sometimes wished he saw me and my contributions reflected in the same way. After all, I, too, come from a deeply musical family. My blind cousin plays every instrument with brilliance. My mother and grandmother were singers whose voices filled every room they entered. My cousin and his three children are graduates of Juilliard Performing Arts — carrying forward a family tradition of excellence. The rhythm, the melody, the artistry — it is in our blood. For, I too am an artist and intellectual.

Moreover, as the author of the workbook Mommy Toolbox, I often find myself riddled with guilt over what I did not do — the moments I wish I could reclaim, the decisions I might have made differently. And yet, when I sit with the truth, I must also admit that I gave parenting my son everything I had.

I raised him without the emotional and financial support of the parent who, historically, has received most of the praise. I was the one who provided the foundation — a beautiful home, health insurance, a nurturing environment. I filled that home with love, music, laughter, and the aroma of healthy meals even if I did not always cook them myself. I made sure he drank vegetable juices, developed strong writing skills, and had a place for friends and family to gather and feel welcomed.

I was his “unofficial momager,” the one cheering from the wings, making sure he had every opportunity to thrive. And as he’s grown older, I’ve offered sound advice, drawn from my own lived experience and hard-earned wisdom.

I have never done these things for accolades — that has never been the point. But every once in a while, when my son is posting about the vegetable juice I’ve consistently made for him, telling his clients how important it is, it would warm my heart to hear him mention that his mom is the one behind it. Just once in a while, it would be nice to receive the same acknowledgment he so freely and consistently gives his dad for everything he does.

Nevertheless, it is important for me to share that everything I’ve poured into him has been for one singular purpose: to convey the most profound message a mother can give her child — I love you immensely. I want to see you fulfill the highest and truest expression of yourself, and I will move mountains to assist you on that journey.

And so, when I see my “wasband” (my affectionate term for ex-husband) celebrated across social media — on birthdays, Father’s Day, or “just because” days — it has often felt like a spotlight on my perceived failures. A reminder that perhaps I did something wrong.

But maybe the deeper lesson is not about failure at all, but about growth. It confirms for me the need for self-reflection — before bringing life into the world, before choosing a partner, before building a family. Self-reflection before procreation. Because parenting is not just about raising children. It is also about healing ourselves, choosing wisely, and setting a course that allows everyone involved to flourish.

Gift someone my workbook, The Mommy Toolbox — a true gift that will keep giving for years to come.

As the author of the soon-to-be-released The Mommy Toolbox, I know what it feels like to live inside the internal torture of self-blame. I have blamed myself for the father I chose for my child, for the hurt and pain that father caused, and for the wounds I personally inflicted—through my lack of preparedness, lack of education, lack of financial stability, and my distraction in chasing unfulfilled dreams rather than creating an unbreakable bond with my child.

I see the future of our children through the lens of this heartache. And in a small but piercing way, I can identify with the depth of regret, pain, and sorrow that the mother of the Minneapolis trans shooter is destined to shoulder. The tragedy on Wednesday is, heartbreakingly, a familiar event in our country—and this fact alone is almost too heavy to bear.

Yet, as the consummate optimist, I cannot stop at despair. I am tasked with seeking solutions. For me, those solutions begin with a difficult but necessary question: how was this child mothered?

While I leave no excuses for the father—whose role is also pivotal—I focus on the mother for two reasons:

As an abused child of both mother and father, I resonate with the words of Dr. Spirit, a well-known counselor who said on a recent podcast: “People believe that the level of a child’s contentment and ability to thrive is connected to the presence of the father. However, the ultimate predictor of a child’s health and emotional stability is directly tied to the happiness of the mother.”

As the parent physically connected to the child through the umbilical cord, the bond between mother and child is like no other. The child’s need for validation, love, and emotional grounding rests profoundly on the mother’s shoulders.

That said, because of the literal connection we share with our children during pregnancy—as mothers caring for our bodies to nurture a healthy child—it is my experience that many of us carry that sense of responsibility throughout our lives. With this in mind, we can only imagine the struggle Robin (formerly Robert) Westman, the shooter’s mother, is facing in the wake of her son’s actions, which claimed the lives of two children and injured many others. We are left to wonder how her life will unfold beyond the weight of blame.

P.S. Mary Grace gave her daughter up for adoption, later reconnected with her in adulthood, and starred in her daughter’s short film about their reunion. The photo is of her daughter.