Motherhood. We come into it carrying dreams. Hopes for our children and hopes for ourselves as parents. We also come in carrying fears. We come in carrying our baggage. Our complicated selves are constructed piece by piece from our past experiences, memories, traumas, and genetics.
Motherhood has us reflect on our own childhood and our relationship with our parents. Maybe you want to be what your parents were to you, or maybe you want to be nothing like them. Perhaps it’s somewhere in the middle.
Motherhood is heavy. It feels heavy. It carries a lot of weight. And inevitability, you will mess it up.
And it will crush your soul. And in those moments, you will feel like you are failing them. And guilt will wash over. Guilt over the things you said you would never be. Guilt over the things you said you would be.
And the days seem long, yet the years pass by. Time. You wish it away. And you wish for it back. You wish to fast-forward through this challenging stage of parenting. And one day, you glance at your child and feel like you are looking at this new person. Your babies are not babies anymore. But here you are. And here they are. Ever changing. And so you try to take it in as best as you can. Collecting the moments. Savoring them. But also knowing you won’t remember them all.
Motherhood. It’s something you want to run away from. And something you run toward.
It is suffocating. It’s all-consuming. But it also feels like home. It is joy, and it is sadness. And sometimes it’s rage. It is isolating, and it is connection. It is pride, and it is shame. It can make you love yourself and hate yourself. It is imperfect and messy. It is beautiful. It is complicated.
