The Good Parent Identity: Why It’s Time to Let Go

When my kids were little, I had a clear picture of what a “good parent” looked like.

Good parents had well-packed, tidy diaper bags with all the essentials. They made homemade, organic purees and quickly taught their children to “eat the rainbow.” Their kids played nicely, shared willingly, and never screamed or hurt others in public.

And I tried. I really did. I wanted to fulfill that identity.

But deep down, I knew I was never going to make it.

Every time I packed my diaper bag, it felt like an audition for a role I wasn’t sure I’d ever land. Every time I took my kids to the library story time—a clearly “good parent” activity—I felt like I was performing in a play I didn’t even believe in.

It was hollow. It didn’t feel right. And yet, what was the alternative? To be a bad parent?

This is the impossible trap of the “good parent” identity. It’s a story created by white supremacy and capitalism to sell us products and services: diaper bags with more pockets, baby food makers, cookbooks, self-help guides, endless lists of tools and rules to fix ourselves and our kids. The more unattainable the identity, the more desperate we are to buy into it—literally and figuratively.

I could see it for what it was. And I still couldn’t escape it.

The backlash against this standard didn’t fit me either. I wasn’t drawn to the “hot mess express” parent identity—embracing chaos and throwing rules out the window—because as an undiagnosed autistic adult, I craved order, routine, and sameness.

So I stayed stuck. Trying. Performing. Feeling like I was always falling short.

A Moment That Stands Out

I remember taking my kids to the free story time at our local library. One of the librarians would lead the babies and toddlers in a full hour of stories, games, and songs. It was the kind of thing “good parents” were supposed to do.

We’d all sit in a circle, bouncing our babies on our knees, singing along. And I felt like I was putting on a show—auditioning for the role of “good mom.” I didn’t know who was casting the part or who was watching, but I was certain that if I played it well enough, someone would grant me that title.

Inside, though, it felt wrong. I wasn’t connecting to the experience, and I wasn’t connecting to myself.

And any time my kids stepped outside the bounds of what the world considered “acceptable,” it felt like a reflection on me. If they screamed in the preschool hallway at pickup time, I could feel 60 eyes on me, watching how I would respond. If their lunchbox only contained Quaker Chewy Chocolate Chip Bars and Welch’s Fruit Gummies, I’d worry about what their teachers might think or say.

And here’s the thing: as a well-educated, cis, married, wealthy white woman, the cost of stepping outside the “good parent” identity was only social shame and an identity crisis. I knew—even then—that my privilege insulated me from the deeper consequences others might face for breaking the rules of “good parenthood.”

Why It’s Time to Let Go

The “good parent” identity isn’t just impossible—it’s harmful. It forces us to conform to standards that don’t reflect the reality of parenting, especially for those of us raising neurodivergent children.

For me, the more I clung to the identity of the “good parent,” the more I felt like I was failing. I was chasing an ideal that had nothing to do with the real work of raising my kids.

And the harder I tried, the more depleted I became.

Letting go of the “good parent” identity isn’t about giving up. It’s about stepping out of a harmful, impossible story and stepping into one that reflects the truth of who you are and what your family needs. It’s about honoring your reality instead of performing for a world that was never going to cast you in the role anyway.

When we let go of the “good parent,” we don’t just reclaim ourselves—we create space for something bigger.

We challenge a story that has harmed not only us but generations of parents before us. A story rooted in systems of oppression, scarcity, and impossible expectations. By stepping away from “good parent,” we begin to model something revolutionary: that worth doesn’t come from perfection or performance, but from being real.

This shift ripples outward. It frees us to connect more deeply with our kids, to show up with authenticity and curiosity instead of judgment or shame. It frees our kids to be their full, messy, complex selves, knowing they don’t have to perform for their worth either.

And it frees our communities. When we stop clinging to the false ideal of the “good parent,” we begin to see the beauty in the wide diversity of parenting approaches, family structures, and individual needs. We start to dismantle the systems that demand conformity and rebuild systems that celebrate humanity.

Letting go of the “good parent” is a deeply personal act—but it’s also a collective one. It’s an act of courage and defiance that invites others to step out of harmful stories and into something truer, something kinder, something that allows us all to thrive.