Being a mom, I’ve decided, is a lot like signing up for an ultramarathon you don’t remember registering for, on a course no one has accurately mapped, with an elevation chart drawn by a drunk cartographer.

There are moments when the sun hits just right, the road opens up, and you think, “This. This is why people do this.” And then, about three minutes later, you’re in a ditch, tying your shoe with one hand while trying not to cry into your Gatorade.

That’s motherhood for me.

I love it. I hate it. Simultaneously. In the same way I love and hate mile 17 of a long run—far enough in that you can’t turn back, not far enough that you can see the finish line, fully committed and questioning every life choice that led you here.

Here’s the part people get weird about: if I had to choose motherhood again, I wouldn’t. There, I said it. Not because I don’t adore my kids—because I do. Fiercely. If it came down to it, I would step in front of anything for them, no hesitation. I show up for them, I take care of them, I push for what they need. They are, without question, the most important part of my life.

But if we’re talking about some cosmic do-over button? Knowing what I know now about sleep deprivation, emotional whiplash, and the sheer volume of sticky surfaces? I’m not sure I’d sign up for this particular race again.

And yet, here I am—bib pinned on, shoes laced, in it for the long game.

My kids bring me so much wonder and joy it feels like hitting that perfect runner’s high: the world sharpened, the air brighter, the sense that maybe, just maybe, I can do hard things. Then, ten minutes later, they bring anger, self-doubt, and anxiety—like realizing you misread the route and there’s another hill you didn’t plan for.

The mental part of parenting is the real endurance test. It’s not the packing lunches or the laundry; it’s the constant, gnawing question: Am I doing right by them? Am I screwing this up? It’s that voice that pipes up around mile 8 and mile 13 and mile 21: Are you sure you can finish this?

This week, that voice had company.

My oldest is in 5th grade, but he’s taking 6th grade math. He’s already finished that curriculum, so he’s been moved on to 7th grade content, most of which lives in a program called MATHia. Picture it as the treadmill of math: technically useful, but not especially inspiring, and you’re never entirely sure if anyone’s actually running the thing.

In my opinion, there hasn’t been a lot of actual teaching happening—more like supervised screen time with occasional math problems.

So when his teacher emailed to imply he wasn’t doing his assigned work this week, I felt my heart rate spike like I’d just started sprinting intervals. Then I noticed she’d copied the middle school principal.

Not his principal. Not his building. A completely different principal.

It was like getting a race DNF email from a race director for an event you didn’t even run.

The rage I felt in that moment could have powered the school’s lights for a week. I had just spoken to her last week about how he’d moved on to the next set of lessons. Now she was telling me he wasn’t doing work tied to lessons he had finished weeks ago—work that had only been officially assigned in the last two weeks.

So let me get this straight: he’s ahead, he’s done the material, and we’re mad because he isn’t pretending to still be on mile 4 when he’s already cruising at mile 9?

Absolutely not.

This is where the running metaphor and motherhood collide: I can tolerate a lot when it comes to my own race. I can handle blisters, bad weather, bad pacing, and poor decisions involving mid-race snacks. But when it comes to my kids, I turn into the runner who will absolutely march over to the race director and calmly, clearly, with a polite smile, demand to know why the course was mis-marked.

Motherhood is a marathon, sure—but no one talks enough about how messy the middle miles are. The beginning is all enthusiasm and new shoes. The end is finish-line photos and relief. The middle miles are where the doubts live. Where your pace slips. Where you negotiate with yourself: Just get to the next mile marker. Just make it to bedtime. Just answer this one email from the teacher without setting anything on fire.

In those middle miles, things get complicated. Teachers misunderstand. Kids get ahead or fall behind. You second-guess yourself hourly. You try to advocate without overreacting, to push without bulldozing, to support without smothering. You’re tired. You hurt. You keep going anyway.

But here’s one thing I’m certain of, even when nothing else feels clear: my kids will always feel my love. They will know, without a doubt, that I will stand up for them, even if my hands are shaking when I hit “send” on the email. They will know I am in their corner, whether the problem is long division, a MATHia module, or something much bigger down the road.

I may not have chosen this race if I’d seen the whole route ahead of time. But I’m running it. Every day. Some miles are ugly, some are beautiful, most are a strange blend of both. And as long as I’m on this course, my kids will know one thing for sure:

Their mom is still moving forward. Still showing up. Still fighting for them.

Even when she’d really, really like a water stop, a pacer, and maybe a new course map.