Me as a Mom

Of all the cautionary tales I ingested over the years about what women trade for a baby – career advancement, a clean and tidy house, good sleep, impromptu date nights, slobber-free clothes, muscle tone, mental clarity and focus – it was the loss of time to myself that frightened me the most. That’s the one that lodged itself in my brain and remained at the top of my cons list throughout my late 20s and 30s when debating the whole undertaking. It nearly prevented me from wanting a child at all and served as my main solace at the thought of not being able to get pregnant. If I couldn’t have a baby, at least I’d still have blissful, uninterrupted time to my introverted self. 

For me, alone time is more than a small luxury or indulgence; my well-being depends on it. It’s how I take care of myself and making space for it is a top priority in my life. It’s the only way I can hear myself clearly over the voices of others, especially those I care about. When I intentionally spend time alone and surround myself with quiet, like magic, my inner guidance emerges and sorts through all the thoughts and feelings I’ve accumulated. The ones that don’t belong to me dissolve and fade away. Others resonate and click in to place so naturally I know they’re part of me. It’s not an easy process; there are always certain thoughts and feelings that cause pain. But I know ignoring them only keeps me disconnected from myself, which in the end is far more painful. Weeding through the static until I hear my inner voice, no matter how hard the truths may be, always restores me to peace. It’s a practice that has never failed me. 

Discovering I had an inner voice and that its purpose was to guide me in the right direction was the greatest awakening of my life. I was 28 when it happened. Until then I’d only lived to people-please and worry over the needs and expectations of others. My self-worth was based in how well I could do it and unfortunately, I was good at it. I had no awareness of my own needs and as a result I was lost and trapped in a sad and codependent marriage. He was miserable, but I made him happy, and that seemed like enough for both of us. For years, I absorbed his burdens like a punching bag until all of the stuffing was beaten out. I coped by remaining numb through self-destructive means, something else I was good at. I refused to feel anything and in doing so I abandoned myself for an entire decade. 

Then one day, very near to my breaking point, a therapist told me I was killing myself and that healing would require spending a lot of time on my own. The idea was terrifying but his words caused a light to flicker and I saw a way out of the dark hole I was in. I committed myself to therapy and gave my soul what it had been craving for so long: time alone, time to breathe, time to get to know myself. Separated from the chaos, I could finally make out the faintest voice, whispering that I had it all wrong. I did not have the power to save anyone but myself. That simple, quiet truth snapped me out of a coma and turned on an insatiable appetite to discover what other life-changing truths were lying dormant within. The more I searched, the more I found and the more I began to feel like myself. The voice I had buried for so long grew strong and clear. I knew it came from within but was connected to something far greater; a powerful source of deep wisdom and love that would always protect me. I promised myself I would never lose touch with it again; a promise I knew I could keep as long as I made time to listen. 

A year later I moved to Austin, TX. I dove straight in to the unknown and it was the happiest time of my life. I loved it so much, a few years later I moved again to Denver and my self-trust grew even deeper. It was not a surprise to me that the moment I felt strongest, I met the love of my life. It made perfect sense. Charlie had all the qualities I was striving for and came by them naturally. I was 34, he was 38, and we had our whole lives ahead of us. A baby was the last thing on our adventurous minds, until three years later, age and curiosity began nudging it to the front of mine. I’d come so far in my life, but what if there was more love to be found? The pull to find out was barely stronger than the fear of what I might lose. A year later we started trying, and six months after that we were pregnant. 

At 38, after ten years of unlimited me-time, I was fairly sure I could make room for a tiny person without losing myself. I had no idea how tightly I was clinging to that belief until it was snatched away the second Cora was born. There was no making room for her; she instantly consumed every ounce of my being. The shift, intensified by crashing hormones, was swift and brutal. Without warning, the me that I knew, that I’d worked so hard to claim, was gone. Deep, unexplainable sadness churned inside my heart as I tried to focus on the new wonder and love in my arms. Though I couldn’t put it in to words, and it would be ten months before I understood, I needed time to mourn the loss of my identity; time that was impossible to come by with a newborn. 

In the weeks and months that followed, my greatest fear was realized. At my most vulnerable, when I needed to take care of myself more than ever, I had no way of doing so. I felt lost all over again, suspended in the hyper-vigilant state of my early years, existing solely for someone else’s needs. I survived by sobbing in the shower, while she slept, all day long as my entire being shifted shape. Holding her was the only thing that stopped the tears. She was my comfort. And little by little, my growing love for her began to soothe my heart. I learned to surrender to the internal re-ordering taking place and accept that every single decision would forevermore be weighed against her needs and she would always come first. I had to re-examine my beliefs about what I truly needed and trust that what I held most dear – access to my inner guidance – would still be there for me. 

Letting go has reminded me that when we do so out of love we’re given greater gifts. I see now that everything that’s happened in my life to make me who I am has made me Cora’s mom, and all the truths I found buried within have a new purpose. What I want most for her is to love and trust herself, to bravely follow her inner wisdom, and to feel secure enough in herself that she feels at home wherever she goes. I know she will learn best from seeing those things in me, which motivates me more than ever to practice what I believe. I know I can’t protect her from struggles, but I can give her the tools she needs to get through them. That is the gift I want to give her and the kind of mom I want to be. 

I loved my life before motherhood. I felt whole and completely myself. For me, the price of becoming a mother was being broken into pieces, but the reward has been experiencing the purest love I’ve ever known. She opens deeper levels of my heart every day. I feel everything all of the time and my intuition has never been stronger. Right now it tells me to be with her; to witness every passing moment I possibly can so I don’t look back one day and wonder where the time went. I know this time is precious and fleeting and all I can do is be present with her. I’m not feeling that familiar longing for me-time because I don’t need it right now. Everything has changed, including what I once thought I couldn’t live without. Now that thing is Cora, which feels exactly right.