I almost didn’t go.

The invite was in a Facebook group I barely check, for “local stroller walks” in the park. It sounded cute… and terrifying. I’d been a mom for exactly seven weeks. My body still hurt, my baby had just spit up on my last clean shirt, and I hadn’t had a full conversation with anyone over the age of 12 in days.

But I needed out of the house.
So I packed up my daughter, strapped her into the stroller, and told myself: You can always leave early.

When I got there, they were already walking. Four women, different ages, different vibes. One in full Lululemon. One barefoot. One who looked like she hadn’t slept since 2009. And all of them were talking—like old friends.

I hesitated, hanging back.

Then one of them turned, smiled, and said, “You’re new, right? Come on—we walk slow, but we talk fast.”

I laughed. Fell in step with them.

And within fifteen minutes, I found myself oversharing about leaky boobs, the weird rash behind my baby’s ear, and how lonely this whole new-mom thing had been.

They didn’t blink.

Just nodded. Reassured. Shared their own stories. Passed me a granola bar like it was communion.

By the end of the loop, my baby was asleep, and I was… lighter.

I didn’t expect to make a friend that day.

But I left with four.

It was a surprising relief, honestly. As I walked back to my car with my daughter, I felt a warmth in my chest I hadn’t realized I needed. The kind of warmth that comes from finding people who understand exactly where you are, even if you’re all at different points in the journey. They didn’t judge me for my messy hair or my baby’s spit-up stain, and they didn’t act like they had it all together. They were real. And that was exactly what I needed.

For the next few weeks, I kept showing up to the stroller walks. It became a little tradition—my way of carving out some time for myself, meeting other women who, surprisingly, felt just as lost and uncertain as I did. There was Sarah, who could talk about the best way to treat a diaper rash like she was giving a TED talk. And then there was Clara, whose toddler was in the middle of a full-on tantrum every time we walked, but she handled it with an effortless grace that I could only hope to replicate someday.

But the one who stood out the most was Lisa. She was probably in her mid-thirties, a little older than the rest of us, and seemed to always have everything figured out. Her baby, Levi, never cried. Her outfit always looked put-together, like she was one of those Pinterest moms who made motherhood look like an art form. And she had the kind of smile that made everyone feel like they were the most important person in the world.

I found myself drawn to her, to the calm way she moved through the world, and I found myself seeking her advice the most. I’d ask her about everything from sleep routines to baby food, to how she managed to look so… well, put together every day. She’d laugh it off and give me some incredibly thoughtful advice, as if she had all the time in the world to be there for me.

But after a few weeks, something started to feel a little off. It wasn’t anything huge, just small things. For one, she started pulling back from the group a little. She’d show up to the walk but hang back, almost as if she didn’t want to get too involved. Then there were the subtle comments, the kind that made me raise an eyebrow. “I can’t believe how easy Levi’s been lately,” she’d say, her voice like a song. “Some babies just have it all figured out, you know?”

At first, I just nodded. Maybe I was reading too much into it. But then came the comment that really threw me off. One day, after a walk, she pulled me aside.

“You know, I think you’d really benefit from my sleep consultant,” she said, her tone so sweet. “It’s helped so many people. I’ve seen amazing results with my Levi. He’s already sleeping through the night at eight weeks!”

I blinked, surprised. “But my baby’s only seven weeks,” I said, a little defensively. “Isn’t that, um… a little early for that?”

“Oh, trust me,” she said, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ll want to get on it early. Believe me, you don’t want to get stuck in a bad routine. That’s when it gets really hard.”

There it was again—the edge to her voice, the subtle insinuation that I was somehow failing by not having things figured out as quickly as she had.

I smiled politely, but inside, something started to shift. I felt a little too small, a little too behind when I was around her. It wasn’t intentional, I could tell. But there was an underlying current to everything she said—like if I didn’t get on her level, I might not make it as a mom.

It bothered me more than I cared to admit, but I kept showing up to the walks, even though it felt like the group dynamic was starting to change. And then, the twist came, just like it always does when things are starting to feel just a little too perfect.

One day, I arrived at the park early, eager to get some fresh air before the others showed up. I parked my car, walked over to the stroller station, and started pushing the stroller back and forth as I waited. That’s when I saw Lisa, sitting by herself on a bench.

I was about to wave and go say hi when I noticed she was on the phone. Her voice was low, but I could still hear her talking, and something in the conversation caught my attention.

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” she was saying. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. It’s just… I’ve been keeping this secret for so long. But… well, let’s just say I didn’t exactly follow the advice of my ‘sleep consultant’ when it came to Levi. I paid for a lot of things that… well, I didn’t really need.”

There was a long pause, then she continued, her voice lower this time. “I’ve been pretending everything’s perfect—making sure I look like I have it all figured out—but, honestly… I’m barely holding it together. I’ve been dealing with my own stuff for months now, and I’ve been pushing it on everyone else.”

A sudden rush of realization hit me. All this time, I’d been looking up to her, admiring her seemingly perfect life. And here she was, confessing that the whole thing had been a facade. A mask she put on to cover up the fact that she was struggling, just like the rest of us. She didn’t have it all together. She didn’t even know what she was doing, despite all the advice she’d been handing out.

It felt like the world tilted for a second.

When she saw me standing there, she quickly ended the call and gave me an awkward smile. I wasn’t sure if I should confront her or just walk away, but I did the latter, choosing to stay quiet about what I had overheard. The truth had already revealed itself, and sometimes, letting people come to terms with their own struggles was the most respectful thing to do.

The next day, I showed up to the walk, and things felt different. Lisa didn’t pull back quite as much, but she wasn’t her usual confident self. She seemed more… human. More open. We ended up talking after the walk, and for the first time, I could see the vulnerability behind her words.

“I owe you an apology,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I’ve been pretending for so long that I had everything figured out. I thought I had to be perfect, and I pushed that on you all without meaning to. But I’ve been dealing with a lot behind the scenes. I’ve been putting on a front to cover up that I’m just as lost as everyone else.”

It was one of the most honest conversations I’d had in a long time.

From that point forward, our walks changed. We all became a little more real with each other, letting go of the “perfect mom” image we’d been holding onto. Lisa wasn’t trying to sell her “consultant” anymore, and the rest of us didn’t feel so pressured to measure up to some unattainable standard. We shared our fears, our failures, and our hopes, without judgment.

And here’s the twist: in helping Lisa break down her facade, I ended up learning the most important lesson of all. We’re all doing the best we can, and sometimes the most meaningful friendships come from just being real with each other. I didn’t need to be perfect. And neither did Lisa. The best thing we could do for each other was support one another, flaws and all.

If you’ve been trying to live up to expectations or feel like you have to be perfect, remember this: you don’t. And you’re not alone. We all have our struggles, and the more we open up about them, the stronger we become together.

Share this post if you know someone who could use a reminder that it’s okay to be real—and that none of us have it all together, no matter what we might seem on the outside.