Being a music mom is one of the great joys of my life. It’s messy and beautiful. Loud and quiet. Sometimes it’s involved running late to rehearsal with snacks in hand. Other times it’s been writing a song at midnight after the kids finally fall asleep. It’s not always glamorous—but it’s always full of heart.
This Women’s History Month, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a woman in music. More specifically, what it means to be a mother who makes music. A mother who sings lullabies at bedtime and writes lyrics during naptime. A woman who carries melodies in her head while folding laundry and finds rhythm in the clatter of dishes.
Music isn’t something I do on the side. It’s woven into everything. It’s part of how I process motherhood, womanhood, and all the messy in-between moments. Some days, I feel like I’m barely holding it together. Other days, a single song makes it all make sense.
Being a music mom means learning how to be creative in the chaos. From writing lyrics in the notes app on a phone while consoling a child to recording rough demos in the car during soccer practice. I’ve even had full-on vocal warm-ups interrupted by spilled juice boxes and sibling squabbles. And yet—I keep singing. I keep writing. I keep going.
Music helps me stay connected to myself. It reminds me that I’m not just the keeper of routines and to-do lists. I’m also an artist. A storyteller. A woman with a voice. Being a mom doesn’t take that away. In fact, it deepens it.
When I see my kids dancing to one of my songs or strumming their little guitars, I know they’re watching. They’re learning that creativity matters. That women’s voices matter. That moms can make music, too.
This month, I think about all the women who came before us—those who paved the way in music while juggling careers, expectations, and doubt. Women like Carole King, Trisha Yearwood, Tina Turner, and Loretta Lynn. Women who proved that you don’t have to choose between being a mother and being a musician. You can be both.
Being a music mom means sharing stories. Not just mine, but ours. The songs that rise out of exhaustion and joy. The harmonies that come from bedtime snuggles and broken sleep. The quiet strength of lullabies and the fierce power of protest songs.
It’s not perfect. But it’s mine. And I’m grateful.
As Women’s History Month comes to a close, I carry its message with me into every month ahead. I carry the strength of the women before me. I carry the beauty of a life made of music and motherhood. And I carry the hope that our daughters—and their daughters—will keep singing, too.
The Music Mom: Eileen Carey 