1. The name

I’m fucked beyond fucked.
That’s the opening line. Not because I enjoy it, but because it feels like the world already gave me that name. So I claim it. I wear it. I throw it out there before anyone else can.
Here she is:

THE WORST MOTHER

And yes—capital letters. I’m writing this book because I want the story to be told. Not as a warning. Not as a victim’s chronicle. But as a testimony. Of a mother. A daughter. A human being. Because somewhere, across generations, something got lost. And maybe—just maybe—words can build a bridge again.

Let’s be honest: there are many mothers who get labeled “bad.” Why? Because motherhood is hard, and everyone always has something to say about it. Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that, biologically, all mothers share one thing: a cunt. And in our language, that word is also an insult—loaded, sharp, heavy. Everything that comes out of it becomes suspect, laughed at, or dismissed as difficult. It’s just… “wrong.” While, quite literally, it is the beginning of life.

Isn’t that strange?

I have screamed, cried, begged, soothed, promised, and messed up. I’ve dropped plates—literally and figuratively. And all the while, I was trying to find a manual for motherhood. Spoiler: it doesn’t exist. Or maybe it does—but I probably threw it out with the recycling by accident. For years, I held on tightly to rules. No foul language. Proper table manners. Talk about your feelings without raising your voice.

You guessed it: mission failed. I wanted to be a mother who did everything right. But in the end, I became a mother who did a lot of things wrong. That’s where this story begins. Not to gain sympathy. Not to seek approval. But to tell the truth—my truth.

Because there is no filter that makes motherhood prettier than it really is. Loving your children well is complicated. Raising them is falling down, getting back up, and then still tripping over a Lego brick that shouldn’t even be there anymore.

Maybe you read this and think: “Wow… that’s intense.” Maybe you think: “Damn… that’s familiar.” Whatever your reaction is—you’re welcome here. This book is an ode to imperfect parenting. To all the mothers (and fathers) who keep trying, despite everything.

And sometimes… are just tired of trying so hard.