I don’t love being a mother. I don’t understand people who say they do.
Before I was a mother, I had freedom.
Not the freedom to go and do, or be a little more frivolous, although there was that; the freedom to walk around in this world with less fear. The freedom to only think of myself.
Once I became a mother, all of my fear came to life. It came to be so quickly and violently that I thought I was losing my mind. That fear manifested itself in my body, and the next thing I knew, I had a full-blown anxiety disorder.
Maybe I was always predisposed to have one; I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. My point is, my immense love for another and the knowledge that I was responsible for this other became very real very fast. From that day forward, every one of my actions and decisions were weighted with my child in mind. The level of seriousness I placed on my newfound responsibility was not healthy for me, and I have since come to the conclusion that it wasn’t healthy for her either.
I was determined to be a perfect mother. Or at least my idea of what I thought a perfect mother was supposed to do.
My definition of a perfect mother didn’t involve baking or arranging play dates but it did include providing stability and security, building my child up, investing in my child’s interests and future. So therefore I worked. I worked at making money, providing a home, instilling moral values, and creating a bubble where no harm could get in. I managed everyone and everything around me to the extent that my child didn’t have realistic expectations about the world. My child never heard fighting, cursing, yelling. She never experienced struggle, saw worry, or conflict. She never saw me cry. I did my job so well that I created an unrealistic atmosphere that was bound to crash and burn.
And crash and burn it did. At one of the most pivotal times in a child’s life, the world I created was flipped on its head. Every bit of security and stability was gone. Her emotionally stable mother was now a raging chaotic mess, still refusing to cry in front of her, only accepting anger as an acceptable emotion, refusing to accept that everything couldn’t just go on as usual. In the end I learned that emotional vulnerability is not weakness or instability although I still struggle with showing my emotions. The best thing I could have done was embrace the emotions we were both feeling at the time and feel our way through them together. But I didn’t. I was still stuck in the headspace that if I seemed ok, as in not crying and providing a home, she would feel safe. I was wrong.
I am lightyears away from the person I was when I first became a mother. Time has brought wisdom and with that wisdom I struggle with guilt and regret. I now realize that there is no “perfect mother”. We all only do the best we can at any given time with the information that is available to us. And even though I know that, I still don’t allow myself peace. I believe that most mothers want to give their children the life they wish they had so we take the bits we liked from our childhood and use those and then tweak the parts we thought were lacking. That’s why I focused on stability and security so much. Respect and honesty were also high on my list. The unfortunate truth is that every human is a product of their environment and no matter how hard you try, you can’t be all things at all times and you can’t operate from a place where you have never been.
I say all of that to say this. I am now a mother of an adult child and the overpowering need to protect and provide safety is still there. Constantly. I worry over this child and try to think of ways to keep her from experiencing any and all hardship. I operate out of guilt a lot and provide when I shouldn’t, further stunting growth. The thing I am having to learn is that no matter how much you want something for someone, sometimes they have to experience things in order to learn and that means they have to hurt. They have to struggle and unfortunately for me, I have to just watch it happen.
My personal story is more proof this is sometimes the case. People tried to tell me I was too protective and indulged her too much. They begged me to make better choices as a teen and young adult. I didn’t listen because I had to experience things myself.
So no, I don’t love being a mother. Not yet at least. Maybe one day when I can let myself relax and not worry so much, but for now, I would really appreciate it if my heart would just come have a seat back inside of my body and let me rest.
Written 3.7.25
