"Like A Racecar": How we show up matters

That moment sat heavy in my chest.

Because yeah — I do come running. Every time. I may be stretched thin. I may be stressed out. I may be threading a needle just to get through the day. But my kids know one thing for certain: if they call out for me, I will drop everything and come running — literally. Like a racecar.

They know they’re loved. They know they matter. And that counts for something.

More than something. It counts for everything.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about how families like mine, single-parent households, are spoken about, especially by people in power who’ve probably never spent a night on the floor next to a sick child or been so run down from the daily grind they forgot their last meal. Politicians love to promote “traditional family values” like they’re some kind of moral compass. They shame single family homes while propping up outdated ideals that don’t reflect the complexity and challenges of real life.

They talk about the kids from single-parent homes who end up struggling — but they never talk about the ones who rise. The ones who become more resilient, more aware, more present, because they’ve seen what it means to survive and still choose love.

They don’t talk about the kids who watch a tired parent show up over and over again without needing applause, credit, or backup. The kids who learn, firsthand, what unconditional love looks like.

And they definitely don’t talk about the kids raised by nannies, in boarding schools, or on FaceTime with parents who never really show up — physically there but emotionally MIA. Millionaires and billionaires preaching “family values” while outsourcing their own parenting. That part never makes it into the speech.

Because here’s the truth:

Being a parent isn’t about being in a relationship. It’s not about staying together for the Instagram photo or forcing a love that’s run its course. It’s about choosing your child. Over and over again. Regardless of your relationship status.

People grow. And we need to make space for that growth — to change, to evolve, to walk away without shame. It’s okay to grow apart. It’s okay if you’re better co-parents than lovers. That doesn’t make you broken. It makes you human.

And in doing that — choosing honesty over performance, peace over pretending — you’re teaching your child something powerful. You’re teaching them that love can shift and still be real. That endings aren’t always failures. That it’s okay to let go when holding on hurts. That people can change, and that change doesn’t have to be painful to be impactful.

So no, I’m not a perfect mom. I lose sleep. I lose my temper. I lose pieces of myself some days.

But I never lose sight of my kids. They know that one word — Mommy — and I’m there. Like a racecar.

And in a world obsessed with appearances, wealth, and social status, I think that kind of presence is more radical than they want to admit.