This past winter break, my family of four (my husband and I, our 5-year-old daughter and 2-year-old son) set off on an eight-day road trip. Sure, it meant constantly racking our brains to keep the two little overlords in the backseat entertained—children’s songs on repeat until my ears felt callused—and bracing ourselves for their hair-trigger tempers. But the scenery along the way, plus the bright Southern sunshine, somehow soothed us. It felt worth it.

Ironically, it was the week after we got home that nearly broke me.

I had another week off as a teacher and both kids stayed home with me that entire week, and I experienced the suffocating, depressive weight that parenting can bring. I honestly didn’t expect that just one week as a “full-time mom” could send me spiraling like that. My husband even had two days off to tag-team childcare with me, and still—we both sank into a deep, gnawing anxiety that week.

Of course, I can’t deny the week came with its own special level of difficulty. Around Christmas, so many places were closed. There weren’t many outings or activities we could take the kids to. And with it being the dead of winter, the minus-twenty-degree cold made anything outdoors pure fantasy. Put those two together and it’s basically a disaster for parents of young children—because everyone knows: kids trapped at home turn into little demons.

My husband and I tried everything. We baked cookies, made bread, sang with them, danced with them, played with them—until we were completely drained. And then we’d check the clock and realize the day still had an endless stretch ahead. The kids, after being glued together for two straight weeks, started to actively dislike each other—swinging back and forth every day between “best friends” and “sworn enemies,” over and over again.

And me? After countless rounds of mediating their fights and trying to keep them amused, I was already running on fumes. So all the anger and anxiety with nowhere to go could only be forced back down. And then, every so often, I’d lose control—spilling out through my eyes, my mouth, my body, in an ugly expression or a harsh tone—making the crying child cry even harder, and leaving my already depressed self even more ashamed.

In the shower, I asked myself more than once: if I could go back and choose not to have kids, would I be spared so much trouble, exhaustion, collapse, and helplessness? Would I be living the carefree two-person life with my husband—fully able to chase my own hobbies and dreams?

But then… what would I be missing?

Would I miss the experience of growing a life and bringing it into the world—pain so extreme it feels unbearable, yet the moment you hear that first newborn cry, the pain vanishes as if it never existed? The feeling of holding a tiny body in your arms and somehow feeling like you’re holding the entire vast universe?

Or the feeling of complaining about your kids all day long, only to stand by their bed at night once they’ve fallen asleep, staring at their sleeping faces as if every single cell in your body is melting at the same time?

Or that ridiculous feeling when you accidentally scroll onto old photos of them when they were even smaller—and you can’t stop. You keep swiping and swiping, grinning like an idiot, until someone next to you has to physically snatch the phone away just to make you stop?

When I got to that point, I understood: I probably can’t truly regret becoming a mother. But I also can’t choose to give up myself—my time, my space, my interests, my dreams. Am I destined to make an either-or choice between motherhood and selfhood? If I want to be a “good mom,” does that mean my personal needs must be compressed into a paper-thin layer, leaving nothing but time to eat, sleep, and use the bathroom? I try my best to be a good mother, yet in the quiet of the night I keep hearing a voice asking: where did I put myself?

Then, recently, I read Hunt, Gather, Parent, and I felt like I finally got a hint of an answer to this impossible dilemma—parenting versus self.

The sources point out that the modern Western ideal of the nuclear family is a very recent phenomenon that challenges WEIRD (Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, Democratic) norms. For the vast majority of human history, raising children was a communal effort known as alloparenting—care provided by individuals outside the immediate family unit. Because human infants are extraordinarily slow-maturing and “costly” to raise, researchers argue that our species could not have evolved unless mothers had significant help from a wider community. This long childhood is essential because it provides the time needed to develop emotional intelligence, cooperation, and empathy.

Consequently, childcare was never intended to be a burden carried by only two parents; it has always been a team effort.

And yet, because of modern mobility, and more importantly, the historical influence of the Catholic Church, which implemented marriage restrictions that fragmented extended family structures and emphasized individualism, many modern families are separated from their families of origin and the networks they grew up in. Today, this lack of a “circle of love” or support network often leads to isolation and increased parental stress.

Raising a child in a modern nuclear family is like trying to row a massive ship with only two people. While it’s technically possible to move forward, it is exhausting and prone to failure. Throughout history, childcare was designed to be a galley with dozens of rowers (a community); when everyone takes a seat at the oar, the ship moves smoothly, and no single person is crushed by the weight of the journey.

My husband and I are a perfect example. We came to the U.S. from mainland China and Taiwan for school, work, and eventually to settle down. Our families are literally half a world away. Here, we don’t just lack relatives— even close friends are few, scattered, and far. Before we had kids, we enjoyed the freedom of not having family constantly in our business. After we had kids, we felt the brutal loneliness of having no one to lean on.

On the one hand, my husband and I both work full-time and still have to shoulder the nonstop grind of raising two young kids. There’s no time left for a couple’s life, let alone personal downtime. The whole year feels like spinning endlessly like a top—exhausted, but unable to stop.

On the other hand, our kids are missing so much of what could have been: time with grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins—the warmth of being surrounded by extended family. Every time we see our American coworkers post photos of their children being adored and doted on by relatives, we feel genuine envy… and we can’t help wondering if we’ve deprived our kids of a lot of the joy they deserve.

We’ve thought about asking friends and neighbors for help—so the kids can have caring adults in their lives besides just us. But so often we feel too embarrassed to say it out loud. It always feels like we’d always be on the receiving end, with nothing to offer in return.

But after reading this book, I’ve started to see things differently. Maybe, in this parenting marathon, we were never meant to run alone. Look around—so many parents are struggling, too. Maybe beyond our families of origin, the people we should be learning to lean on—and support in return—are the ones closest to us: neighbors, friends, coworkers.

Maybe the connections that hold us together don’t have to be limited to blood. Maybe there’s a wider kind of bond that can link us—so we can support each other, help each other, survive and grow together. And maybe that bond starts with something simple: mutual understanding. Understanding how hard it is to raise children—how helpless, lost, and lonely it can feel—and at the same time recognizing the stubborn persistence and hope each of us carries deep down.

After all this, where do I go from here? I still don’t know. But more than ever, I’m willing to reach out—to rebuild a circle of love around my kids, and around the other children in our lives. And I’m looking forward to sharing more next time.