Chapter 21 begins during a deeply transformative time in my life, marked by the birth of my second son, Jayden James, shortly after Sean Preston turned one. Jayden radiated joy from the start, and having both boys filled me with an almost weightless happiness, as if I were floating. My body felt renewed—trim, strong, and free of the strain of pregnancy—making me feel young again, almost like a teenager rediscovering herself. Friends noticed the change immediately. “You look so skinny!” one said, and I laughed, saying I’d been pregnant nonstop for two years. But while my figure returned, my sense of identity was far more uncertain.

The rush of reclaiming my body collided with a quiet ache. I missed feeling the boys safe inside me, shielded from the world. Once born, they seemed exposed, tiny beings in a world buzzing with intrusive camera lenses and harsh headlines. I found myself caught between the pride of motherhood and the fear of how vulnerable they were outside the womb. The joy of slipping back into clothes was undercut by the sorrow of no longer physically protecting them. The paparazzi intensified after Jayden arrived, and we were forced to hide more, to preserve the last slivers of privacy. That’s when speculation erupted—why no photos of Jayden?

Every outing was a tactical mission. Before stepping outside, I’d count cars parked nearby, knowing most of them were stalking photographers hoping for a million-dollar snapshot. The frenzy wasn’t just annoying—it felt threatening. These men had no boundaries, treating my babies like prizes in a media hunt. My heart raced as we wrapped the boys in blankets, trying to shield them from the noise and the flash. We had to ensure they could still breathe beneath those covers, while I could barely catch my own breath under the pressure. The fear wasn’t abstract; it was in every moment, every movement outside our home.

I gave only one interview that year—to Matt Lauer. He recited the harsh questions floating in the tabloids: “Is Britney a bad mom?” It stung, especially since no one was really listening to my side. Instead, they talked about me, not to me. When Matt asked what it would take for the paparazzi to stop, I wished he’d direct that question at them. I would’ve done anything to make them go away. Amid the chaos, our house became a haven, at least in part.

Kevin and I had created what felt like a dream home in Los Angeles—right next to Mel Gibson’s place, with Olivia Newton-John living nearby. We filled it with playful features: a slide into the pool, a toy-filled sandbox, and a mini playhouse complete with a porch. It was a childhood wonderland, a fantasy made real. I wanted the boys to grow up in a place full of laughter and color. But in making that dream a reality, I started losing touch with balance. I demanded white marble floors everywhere—against my designer’s advice.

He warned me about the dangers: slippery surfaces, hard falls. But I insisted. I needed it to be beautiful, to feel in control. That space was my nest, my shield, my expression of love. Yet looking back, I see now how over-the-top it became. I was reacting to the whirlwind of hormones, the pressures of fame, and the exhausting devotion of new motherhood. My behavior became erratic. I shouted at contractors, fixated on perfection, and pushed myself—and everyone around me—to extremes. The murals of boys on the moon in their bedrooms? Another attempt to give them a fantasy I never had.

I poured everything into that home because I wanted my boys to have magic, safety, and comfort. They were my dream come true—tiny and perfect, the embodiment of everything I’d ever hoped for. I wanted to give them the universe, literally painting it across their walls. But my protectiveness turned stifling. I wouldn’t even let my mother hold Jayden at first, rationing out brief moments like they were borrowed time. That wasn’t fair to her—or to me. I understand that now.

In hindsight, I realize I regressed. It was like when Justin and I broke up—I felt myself emotionally rewinding. Becoming a mom turned me into both nurturer and child. I clung to them as if they were also clinging to me. There was healing in it, a softening of judgment, a realization that every person starts out fragile and trusting. Yet there was also pain. It brought up old wounds, particularly from my childhood and from when my sister Jamie Lynn was little. I became her shadow, emotionally syncing with her in a way that wasn’t entirely healthy.

There’s a psychological explanation for it. Experts say parents with unhealed trauma can relive their pasts through their children, especially when their kids reach the same age where the trauma began. That’s what I experienced. But in those days, mental health wasn’t part of public conversation like it is now. I want to say to new mothers today: if you’re struggling, don’t bury it in perfectionism or marble floors. Seek help. What I was going through was likely perinatal depression—sadness, anxiety, deep fatigue—and it was worsened by the scrutiny of the public eye. Being a new parent is overwhelming enough without a thousand lenses watching your every move.