I came across a parental treasure trove recently: a batch of videos of my daughter that I had previously thought lost. She was about one year old at the time, when I was still a postpartum mess because of her early and traumatic birth. I don’t have a lot of clear memories from that period, but I had been figuring that I was a terrible mom back then. I was so emotionally checked out and in turmoil, I thought, how could I possibly be anything but?

But when I watched these videos – of me singing to Layla, doing the alphabet with her, or somewhat embarrassingly trying to get her to dance to A Tribe Called Quest – a different picture started to emerge. The unkind image of myself as a bad mom, which I’d built up in my head for three years and counting, fell apart with every smile from her, every laugh from behind the camera. I hadn’t been a bad mom at all. Actually ... it sort of seemed as if I was great.

Not everyone has the sort of postpartum experience that I did (though it is certainly not uncommon), but guilty self-flagellation seems to be universal among moms. It’s as if you’re sure to get two things when you become a mother: a cute baby and a brutal inferiority complex.

Online forums for new parents are peppered with anxious questions and moms who think they’re monsters for not being able to breastfeed. Moms who work “can’t have it all”, and moms who stay at home are setting an un-feminist example. We worry if our kids are using too much technology, if we’re feeding them properly organic food, if we’re intellectually stimulating them or emotionally smothering them. (Fathers, amazingly, are not juggling these same rotating bouts of self-doubt and remorse.)

Women who embrace being “bad” at things is not new. The classic Amy Schumer bit about the lengths women go to put themselves down feels very familiar. You like our hair? Ugh, it’s a mess. Think we did a great job on that report? Well, it was really a group effort. We recognize these sorts of self-hating tics as problems, but when it comes to parenting, questions about how to be a remotely good mother are treated as a matter of course.

So while we’re reclaiming our “inner beauty” and trying to lean in and stop apologizing, why not embrace the probable truth about our parenting: We’re good at it. We love our kids, we do the best we can by them. We take them to parks and sit through endless renditions of “Let it Go” with almost the same enthusiasm the hundredth time around. We try to make sure that our kids feel safe.

Accepting that I’ve been a pretty fantastic mom has been revelatory. It’s not that I think I do anything in particular that’s different than other moms, or that I’ve unlocked the secret to having it all or raising the perfect bébé. Our family spends time together, we listen to each other, we make food together (and sometimes it’s microwaved, and that’s OK). I work a lot, but I’m glad my daughter gets to see me do something I love. And, yes, Layla will sometimes get to watch TV when mom needs a break or I’ll forget that I haven’t trimmed her nails in ... a while.

But still, I am an awesome mom.

I know this most of all because Layla tells me so: My daughter is happy, she feels loved, and her dad and I are just about her favorite people in the world, at least for now – she may feel differently when she’s 14. Then, I suspect, I’ll need all the parental self-confidence I can get.