Feeling lost in motherhood and starting to piece my identity back together

I don’t think we necessarily forget our needs, I think we just learn how to quiet ourselves in the same way we learn to quiet our crying baby.

When I was pregnant with my son, I had a sourdough starter and a vision for the kind of mother I’d be.

While the family slept in on Sunday morning, I’d preheat the oven, slowly sipping on my coffee. As the loaves of bread baked in the quiet house, I’d meticulously plan out a menu of home-cooked meals for the week ahead. In the afternoon, I’d bring my baby to the farmer’s market, teaching him to identify a perfectly ripe melon and the freshest bulb of garlic.

That image I painted for you OF COURSE isn’t one that I’ve ever lived out.¹

From the moment of giving birth, my plans began to unravel. My son’s sunny-side-up entry into the world was physically traumatic for me. I spent weeks alternating between the bed and the couch with the maximum doses of Advil and Tylenol on constant rotation. I wanted nothing more than to walk around the block with my son in his stroller, but every moment on my feet had to be limited; every attempt to go back to my normal activities left me feeling defeated and crying from the pain.²

I didn’t realize how much of my identity was slowly eroding away in that postpartum period.

As I sat hunched over on our turquoise couch, alternating between taking a bite of pizza and getting my son to latch in a way that wasn’t making me wince, I was losing myself. And maybe it wasn’t exactly the new things I was doing that were the problem, but the swiftness with which I stopped doing the things that I used to do before I was a mother.

When I think about the things that I do for myself that make me happy, they’re simple. I love to wake up early and head into the kitchen to bake something. And I love to spend time outside walking while listening to podcasts. In my body, those activities give me the same feeling as driving on a highway blasting music that perfectly fits my mood. Baking and going for walks: mothers can find time to do those things, can’t they?!

When you become a mother³, it’s a common refrain that “it’s so easy to get caught up in caring for another human being, that you can forget to take care of yourself.”

I don’t think we necessarily forget our needs, I think we just learn how to quiet ourselves in the same way we learn to quiet our crying baby. Those first cries are so loud and jarring, but over time you become accustomed to them, and instinctually hush them and rock them away. Motherhood feels so overwhelming at first, and then it doesn’t let up or get easier, so we just grow used to the intensity, like learning to fall asleep in a loud city.

Looking back through my photos from my son’s first year of life, I can see moments when my old self was tapping on my shoulder, reminding me that she was still inside.

There were days when I’d drag my son’s bouncer into the kitchen and make a batch of Melissa Clark’s chocolate peppermint bars or Anne Burrell’s focaccia bread⁴. But the whole experience didn’t feel quite the same when I had to split my attention between the recipe and making sure my son was content (because he mostly wasn’t!). What used to be a relaxing activity felt frantic in a way that it didn’t before.

Shortly after my son’s first birthday, I set a new year’s resolution that 2020 would be the year that I prioritized doing more things that would make me happy as an individual, separate from myself as a mother.

I made an Excel sheet with each month of the year and planned an activity to look forward to. I began the year with a concert and a sourdough baking class. But of course, everything else was canceled because of the pandemic.

My son is four and a half now, and I also have a daughter who’s nearly one and a half. I think I am still trying to figure out how to be myself, and also be the mother I want to be. Those two things can often feel at odds.

I recently got divorced, and now my kids are only with me for half of each week. In my case, it’s forced me to have real, consistent time on my own. There are days when that reality is really hard for me to accept. I often miss them so much that I watch videos of them on my phone for long periods of time, and feel like I’m not a good enough mother for missing out on parts of their childhood.

But there are also days when I wake up in a quiet house, turn on my oven, take a sip of my hot coffee, and feel like for the first time in years, I’m myself again.

Simple Fruit Tart from Sweet Enough by Alison Roman

1. Here’s a more accurate version: My toddler (who co-sleeps with me) hits me in the face with her water cup at 5 AM then begins crawling rapidly to the edge of the bed. I begrudgingly get out of bed and pick her up, my back already aching from carrying her for 2 seconds. I try to put her down to make my coffee, so she yells and wakes up her brother (now he is literally growling at us from his room). I pick her up and scoop the coffee grounds with one hand, sprinkling some extra grounds all over the counter for decoration (I’ll clean them in probably 48 hours or so). I look around for what to feed the kids for breakfast, as my sourdough starter sits forgotten somewhere behind boxes of cereal and snacks. I can’t tell you the last time I saw the inside of a farmer’s market.

2. Although I experienced a few months of reduced physical abilities after giving birth, I want to just name that I have able-bodied privilege.

3. This essay focuses on motherhood so I use the term “mother” throughout, but the themes can also be applied to many situations in which one might serve as a caregiver.

4. In case you’re wondering, I’m making this recipe more often these days, but I love both.