There are moments in life when hard truths don’t arrive loudly—they creep in quietly. They show up in unexpected places: the friend group you thought was safe, the community you believed shared your values, the spaces where you thought you could breathe freely. You realize that belonging is sometimes conditional—especially when your opinion doesn’t match the crowd.
When my daughter was six months old, I signed up for a “Mommy and Me” class. I was craving connection and community. Motherhood can be isolating, especially in those early months when your world suddenly becomes very small and very tender. Through the class, I was added to a “Cool Moms” group chat with over a hundred local moms. I thought I had struck gold.
Over one hundred women, all navigating motherhood. A built-in support system. A resource for late-night questions, shared wisdom, and a sense of solidarity. What mom doesn’t want that? The idea of leaning on other women who’d walked this road before felt comforting. But as it turns out, motherhood is one of the most deeply personal experiences a woman can have—and where there are personal choices, there are inevitably strong opinions.
What I didn’t realize then was that everyone comes to parenting with their own history, their own boundaries, their own ways of making sense of an often overwhelming world.
How I Approach Motherhood and Parenting Choices
For me, when someone offers advice, I listen with gratitude. I take it in, thank them, and then quietly decide if it fits my family. I’ve always believed that most moms share their experiences out of care, love, and good intentions—not judgment. But even with good intentions, advice can clash with personal convictions.
Motherhood isn’t just about deciding between breastfeeding or formula, co-sleeping or sleep training, Montessori or traditional schools. It’s about making choices that impact another human’s entire life. It’s the weight of imagining consequences and outcomes, trying to protect while also allowing them to grow. It’s layered and messy and relentless.
I parent through reflection. I look back at my own childhood—what I loved, what hurt, what shaped me—and I consciously choose what to carry forward and what to break. I don’t make decisions lightly. I research almost everything. Not because I don’t trust anyone, but because I want to understand.
I want to see both sides, weigh the pros and cons, hold conflicting truths in my hands, and find the place in the middle that feels right for our family. I ask questions that might seem excessive to some:
- Why do we wait until two years old to introduce a toddler pillow?
- What are the real risks of eating sushi during pregnancy?
- How do long-term studies actually reflect real-world outcomes?
I want the good and the bad. I want to make informed choices. And I believe other parents should be free to do the same—even if we land in different places.
If you’re in that early season of motherhood, my post on sleep training our six-month-old shares another honest look at how we learned to trust our instincts in parenting.
Somewhere Between Crunchy and Old School
If I had to describe my parenting style, it’s somewhere between crunchy and old school. I care deeply about what goes in and around my child’s body. I avoid unnecessary chemicals. I read labels. But if a pacifier hits the floor in my house, I’m not rushing to boil it. I’ll wipe the dog hair off and keep it moving.
I believe in dirt under fingernails, fresh air, natural immunity, and letting kids get messy. I’m cautious about synthetic chemicals, but I’m not living in fear of the world. That balance between curiosity, caution, and instinct sits at the center of how I parent—and it’s what ultimately led me into one of the biggest debates in modern motherhood.
For more about this balance, I shared my natural living perspective in Why Our Whole Family Switched to Happy Tooth Fluoride-Free Toothpaste.
The Friend Who Sparked a Question About Vaccines
Before my daughter was born, a close friend—someone I’d known since middle school—reached out to me. She said something I’ll never forget:
“Carlie, promise me before you give birth that you’ll research vaccines for children. I’m not crazy, I swear. You won’t find honest answers on page one of Google. You’ll have to dig deeper.”
This wasn’t a friend with a tinfoil hat. She was, and still is, one of the most intelligent and accomplished women I know—running a division of a large commercial bank in Texas, overseeing billions of dollars worth of assets. She’s educated, articulate, rational, and deeply thoughtful. So when she told me to look into something, I took it seriously.
I grew up vaccinated. I never questioned it. My parents vaccinated me without hesitation. It was simply what you did. I trusted doctors. I trusted the system. I trusted the process. But something shifted for me in 2020.
If you’re currently navigating how to decide about vaccinating your child, it’s natural to feel conflicted. Every parent wants to make the safest choice possible. The key is taking time to research, ask questions, and make your own informed decisions rather than reacting from fear.
When the First Questions Started
When the World Health Organization declared Covid-19 a global pandemic, I, like so many others, was afraid. Then when Pfizer rolled out the first Covid vaccine in less than a year, that fear turned into something else: questions.
In school, we’re taught that vaccine development can take years, sometimes a decade or more. Trials, testing, safety data—science takes time. So how was this now suddenly different? How did this come to market so fast? Everyone around me was lining up to get the shot, many just to travel or feel safer. But for me, something didn’t sit right.
I’ve always been the kind of person who doesn’t follow the crowd just because everyone else does. My parents’ classic line—“If all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?”—clearly stuck. I like to observe, assess, and take my time before committing.
And then I watched as nearly everyone I knew who got vaccinated still contracted Covid. Some twice. Some more. That was the first time I truly, deeply questioned a vaccine’s effectiveness. Not to discredit science entirely, but to ask: what’s the actual efficacy? What’s the real data behind the narrative?
Many parents find themselves asking similar questions as they face childhood vaccination decisions—not out of rebellion, but out of responsibility.
Gut Instinct vs. External Pressure
My gynecologist pushed me hard to get vaccinated. She was confident. Firm. Almost dismissive of my concerns. She made me feel like an idiot for even questioning it. But my gut kept whispering, this isn’t for you.
I didn’t get the shot. I got Covid twice. The first time I barely noticed. The second time, I was in my second trimester of pregnancy. It felt like the flu. I handled it, recovered, and moved on.
That experience didn’t make me anti-anything. But it made me aware. Aware of how quickly narratives can become pressure. Aware of how doctors, even well-meaning ones, can make you feel small for asking questions. Aware of how much of parenting is about trusting your gut.
For moms navigating similar questions, I talk about finding balance and confidence in parenting in How to Start Introducing Solids. That same trust in your instincts applies in every part of motherhood.
Down the Rabbit Hole
So when my friend asked me to research childhood vaccines, the door was already cracked open. I started reading everything I could find. And once I started, I couldn’t unsee what I saw.
I watched Candace Owens’s A Shot in the Dark with my husband—not to convince him of anything, but to gather information together. I asked him to keep an open mind. By the fourth episode, we were deep in conversation, dissecting, questioning, weighing.
I went beyond documentaries. I read pharmaceutical manufacturers’ own documents, medical literature, published studies—information hidden in plain sight. And the more I learned, the more uneasy I felt.
For parents wondering should I vaccinate my child, my only advice is this: approach it with curiosity, not fear. Read multiple perspectives. Speak with different healthcare professionals. Trust your gut, but also trust your ability to discern truth through research.
The Weight of My Own History
This wasn’t just theory for me. My own medical history colored every thought.
As a child, I experienced night terrors, sleep paralysis, sudden-onset OCD, acid reflux, lactose intolerance, ear infections, and a list of odd symptoms that came and went without clear explanation. And then, as I got older—and the vaccine schedule slowed down—those issues disappeared.
At 22, before studying abroad in South Africa, I received multiple vaccines and fainted in the doctor’s office. In my late twenties, after a tetanus shot, my entire arm swelled up, hot and red, the reaction creeping beyond the injection site. My cousin—a physician assistant—told me to mark it with a pen. If it spread further, I’d need to return immediately.
These weren’t random events to me. They were data points. They made me wonder if I’d been more sensitive than anyone realized. And if I was, could my child inherit that sensitivity?
A Decision That Didn’t Come Lightly
For me, it wasn’t about fear—it was about calculation. Risk versus reward. Information versus instinct. After months of research, after weighing what I believed to be the risks and the benefits, we made a personal decision as parents: we would not vaccinate our child.
It was a decision rooted in long conversations, late-night reading, lived experiences, and quiet instinct. It was personal. Deeply personal. But as I would learn, personal choices aren’t always received as such in motherhood spaces.
When Opinions Collide in Motherhood Communities
One afternoon, a mom in the group chat posted a photo of her child’s rash, asking for advice. Other moms chimed in. I sent her a private message, telling her that when my daughter had a similar rash, it cleared up in a couple of days without needing to call the doctor. I encouraged her to use AI symptom checkers to help her decide whether to visit a pediatrician—just a simple, well-intentioned suggestion.
Someone in the chat wondered if it could be measles. The mom responded that her child had been vaccinated. Another chimed in that post-vaccine rashes can occur up to 10 days later. I added my voice to the thread, casually saying:
“All vaccines are only 50% effective. So it’s really a 50/50 chance they work. And then you have to factor in potential side effects. I’ve just done a lot of independent research—not trying to scare anyone at all!”
I linked the MMR episode of the Owens series. And that’s when the storm hit.
One mom replied that she was friends with Candace Owens personally and would “take everything she said with a pinch of salt.” Another said, “Moms giving medical advice without being qualified is irresponsible.” A third asked, “Where are you planning to send your child to school? In South Africa, you have to submit vaccination forms as a requirement.”
The tone of the group shifted from communal to combative in seconds. It wasn’t a discussion—it was a shutdown.
The Larger Truth About Information and Authority
I’m not a doctor. I don’t claim to be. But I also know I’ve spent more than 30 hours reading and researching vaccinology. I’ve gone deeper than what many people—sometimes even medical students—are required to study on the topic in undergrad.
And here’s the thing: if only people with degrees can speak on a subject, then no one without a political science degree should discuss politics. No one without a business degree should run a company. No one without a teaching degree should homeschool their kids.
Parenting is full of these gray areas where information, personal experience, and instinct intersect. It’s not about who has the louder voice—it’s about allowing space for respectful differences.
But some spaces don’t allow for difference. Some spaces only feel safe as long as you agree.
Closing the Door on Spaces That No Longer Serve You
After reading those comments, I sat with myself for a while. Why was I in a group that was so closed off to differing perspectives? If I couldn’t share my knowledge or experience without being ridiculed or contradicted, what value did that space actually hold for me?
And then I realized something: I had never needed that group.
I had never taken their advice. I had never learned anything new from them except the occasional announcement of a new kids’ activity or play space opening. I had shared plenty of times, but nothing they offered had ever meaningfully impacted my life.
So I quietly exited the group. No big speech. No confrontation. Just a silent decision. I made my mark on the wall and walked away.
That moment reminded me of something I believe deeply: never stay in rooms that don’t serve you—mentally or emotionally. Even if those rooms are virtual.
Motherhood already comes with enough weight. The communities we choose should be places that support us, not silence us.
Final Reflection: Trusting Yourself in Motherhood
Motherhood is a journey paved with choices. Big ones. Small ones. Some that feel easy, some that keep you awake at night. And while we may make different decisions, the truth is, we’re all just trying to protect and nurture the little humans we love most.
But belonging should never be conditional. You should never have to shrink to fit.
Hard truths have a way of finding you in the places you thought were safe. But sometimes, those moments are simply there to remind you of your own strength, your own clarity, and your right to make the decisions that feel right for your family.
And sometimes, walking away from the wrong room is the most powerful choice of all.
For more stories on motherhood, balance, and belonging, visit Get to Know Carlie Stanley: The Mode Expat Mom.
Editor’s Note:
This personal essay reflects the author’s lived experience and individual perspective. It is not intended as medical advice. For health decisions and guidance, consult a qualified healthcare provider.