Mama Mia

Where Emma talks parenting

Hello! It’s good to be back here and spending my time painting in the studio! Thank you for all the support and purchases of my work…I’m truly honoured.

There’s a particular kind of balancing act that comes with parenting while living with a chronic illness. It’s not just the daily juggle of responsibilities, emotions, and time—it’s the constant negotiation between who you want to be for your children and what your body allows you to be. For me, as a mother of two daughters, now 17 and 21, this balancing act has been shaped by Parkinson’s, an uninvited guest that arrived quietly but has made itself very much at home.

Motherhood is a landscape that constantly changes, even in the best of circumstances. Children grow, their needs evolve, and the emotional terrain shifts with every new milestone. But when Parkinson’s entered the picture, it altered the landscape in ways I never expected.

At first, I could pretend that nothing had changed. I pushed through fatigue, masked the tremors, and kept up appearances. I told myself that if I just tried harder, I could be the same mother I had always been. But Parkinson’s is insidious. It doesn’t announce itself with a single, catastrophic moment. It creeps in, stealing little things first—energy, stamina, spontaneity—until one day, I realised I was parenting from a place of depletion.

As my daughters moved through adolescence, I became acutely aware of the invisible cost of trying to ‘keep up.’ I didn’t want them to notice the changes, to feel burdened by a mother who was slowing down. So, I kept pushing. I attended every school play and sports event, even when my body screamed for rest. I kept pace with their emotional worlds, holding space for their worries and dreams, while mine became more difficult to articulate. I wanted them to have a mother who was fully present, but Parkinson’s chipped away at that version of me.

It’s a strange feeling—to be both there and not there. To be physically present but emotionally and mentally frayed at the edges. I worried that my daughters would sense the difference, that they would feel the unspoken gap between what I wanted to give and what I was able to offer.

But here’s the thing about raising daughters—you teach them strength even when you don’t mean to. They saw me persist through pain, adapt to change, and find new ways to be present even when the old ways no longer fit. They learned, perhaps too young, that life sometimes asks us to recalibrate our expectations. And in doing so, they are growing into compassionate, resilient young women who understand that love isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up, again and again, in whatever way you can.

Letting go of who I thought I needed to be as a mother wasn’t easy. It felt, at times, like a quiet failure. But over time, I realised that the heart of motherhood isn’t in the doing—it’s in the being. My daughters didn’t need a mother who could do everything. They needed a mother who was honest about her limits, who modelled self-compassion, and who taught them that strength sometimes looks like asking for help.

Even now, as they step into adulthood, the guilt lingers. I think most mothers carry it—this sense that we could have done more, been more. But chronic illness adds another layer to that guilt. It whispers that if only I had tried harder, pushed further, I could have given them more of me. But the truth is, I gave them the best of what I had, even when that looked different than I had planned.

And perhaps that’s one of the hardest truths of parenting with a chronic illness: learning to forgive yourself for what you couldn’t be while celebrating what you still are.

Now, as my daughters step into the wider world, I see the gifts that have come from our shared journey. They move through life with a quiet empathy, a deep understanding of what it means to hold space for someone else’s experience. They have grown up witnessing what it looks like to adapt with grace, to meet uncertainty with resilience, and to offer compassion without judgment.

They know that strength isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s in the steady presence of someone who stays, even when staying is hard. They’ve seen me redefine what it means to ‘show up’—learning that being present doesn’t always mean being physically capable but rather being emotionally available, even on the hardest days.

This quiet compassion, this deep knowing, is something they carry forward. I see it in how they navigate their own relationships, in the way they extend patience and understanding to others. They have learned that life doesn’t always follow a straight line, and that sometimes the greatest kindness is simply being willing to walk beside someone as they navigate the bends and curves.

My daughters and I have had to redefine success on our own terms. Success isn’t about doing it all—it’s about knowing when to pause, when to ask for help, and when to change course. It’s about creating a space where everyone in the family, including me, feels valued and seen.

Parenting with Parkinson’s has taught me that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be powerful. It has shown my daughters that strength isn’t always about pushing through—it’s also about knowing when to let go, when to adapt, and when to offer yourself grace.

As they step into their own futures, I hope they carry that lesson with them. I hope they know that even when life demands adjustments, they are never less for having to change direction. And I hope they remember that sometimes, the greatest strength lies in compassion—both for others and for themselves.

Because in the end, love isn’t measured by how much we do, but by how deeply we show up—even when showing up looks different than we imagined.

with love

E xx