I was folding clothes last night when I realized I was a mother.
This is illogical, given the fact that I have a 2.5 year old and a 4 month old, but something sunk into my bones as I carefully placed three different sets of outfits in neat and tidy rows on my basement bar. The clothes had remained wrinkled at the bottom of a laundry basket for almost a week; between working full-time and running on excruciating levels of sleep deprivation, I’d been putting off sorting the bin.
It hit me in that moment, as I assembled the piles of tiny onesies, toddler sweatpants, and my own sports bras, that I was a mother of two. That I was in charge of two humans. That I was irrefutably not myself anymore—something I had unconsciously not unpacked yet.
I suppose it was after a few difficult and isolating pregnancies that a specific longing took up residence within me to re-emerge as a refreshed, joyous version of my former self. As a girl, really—one who still colored her hair and wore fashionable clothes and could do everything she once did, only with a few tiny humans on her hip. Someone who made time for her friends and her hobbies and squeezed the juice out of each day. (As Liz Lemon once said: Yes to life! Yes to staying in more!) This manifested in a few different ways, namely purchasing a bunch of trendy clothes that wouldn’t fit me for months (smart), biting off more than I could chew, and constantly trying to make plans that I wasn’t sure I could see through.
After a few months of adjusting to two little ones, however, something profound settled into my body in the moment. I am not the same, my soul kept humming. I am never going to be the same. I am never going back to who I once was, I am at the point of no return, and I am deep in the mess of it all in the most beautiful, achingly lonely way possible.
What is so hard to communicate to people about having kids is the fact that yes, each day feels like a marathon where I’m out of breath and spit up on at the end of it, but aside from all the mom memes that read like a Cathy cartoon, there is also a vast emotional landscape to navigate filled with other things: unwavering love so deep it shakes you to your core; terrifying anxiety anytime they leave the house; fear that your relationship will never be the same; a deeper understanding of your own parents and your childhood; and yes, a release that must occur where you let go of who you once were.
It took a rare moment of peace during a mundane daily chore—an act I had been putting off but finally prioritized over basically meeting any of my other needs like peeing, eating, or sleeping—to sink into that moment of quiet and be in communion with the truth: I am not myself, I am Someone Else.
This knowing sounds dissociative, but it was not. It was relief. It felt like all the pretending I have tried to do to make sure other people Know I’m Capable could stop. The most difficult part of motherhood for me has not been the sleepless nights or tantrums or constant laundry. It’s been the shame I feel when I can’t do it all—particularly when I can’t give 100% of my attention to both of my kids.
Many mothers know this: the myth of trying to “have it all” is that you will likely always feel like you are failing at one thing or another. But none of us have to strive for that ideal anymore—none of us should suffer with the weight of that shame. In this quiet moment in my basement I knew it was up to me to stop flailing. I could stop packing my schedule with things that would stress me out, knowing I’d have to procure two babysitters anytime I wanted to leave the house. I could stop trying to lose the weight of bearing two humans in my body so quickly. I could leave artificial relationships behind and grow comfortable knowing that the bonds which would survive these years would be ones that could meet me where I am.
Where I once filled up my days trying so hard to be liked and accepted, to make endless plans to keep myself busy, to check boxes I believed belonged to a full life, I see now the richness I’m diving into every day and know it is more than enough. It doesn’t have to be understood or explained or filled with caveats. I don’t have to pretend I am me + kids; I am someone else.
I try to use any free time I have now to devote to my writing, to that sacred world that feels quiet and lush. It’s my flow state, it’s where I can go to meet my new self: one with new priorities, new meaning, and a new perspective. I don’t think being a mother means giving up what defines you—but for me, it was important to realize I had the choice to stop chasing after an old identity that didn’t fit anymore. That I could choose to carve out a new one. That time has become increasingly precious, and I want to spend it with the people I love and on creative pursuits.
The best days have both, when I can sneak in an hour of editing my novel and my oldest daughter curls up in my lap before bedtime as I read her Madeline for the 400th time. She recites line after line with me, and I hope that even on days when I don’t feel like I’m doing anything right, I’ve given her a love of language and shown her that stories can open up a world of belonging wherever she goes, whoever she becomes, however she defines herself.
Oh wow. You have captured the love and trials and joy and loss and the exhausting real parts of motherhood so well here… I love this. So many of us can relate to this! Xo
That is, you are, so beautiful!