Who am I? The Identity Crisis of a New Mother

My life is different now. I am different and I am someone new. I am a mother. Although I am wrapped up in loving my children, and learning all it takes to do this, I have recently found myself musing and sobbing over what I don’t have anymore, what I can’t do. After much soul searching and wandering through my wilderness, my belief is that there is a mourning period. There is a time to grieve the ‘old life’, a time to cry your bloody eyes out wondering why on earth you chose to have sex without contraception and what on earth possessed you to even want children in the first place. There is a time to feel cheated and pissed off that you were once travelling the world, writing poetry and music, sleeping through the night, being an ambitious professional and active lover. And now? Well, you’re watching your tenth straight hour of Netflix with a human attached to your boob, and you’re tired. Not I’ve had a hard day at work so let’s share a bottle of wine and have an early night tired, but really, REALLY fucking tired. So tired that your head hums and your bones ache.

At first, like so many mothering tropes, this sadness and anger led to an unyielding shame for me. It became a dark and dirty secret. Shouldn’t I be drowning in joy and happiness right now? Shouldn’t I just be grateful that I can have children? But I’ve come to realise that it’s not one or the other. I can be sad and happy simultaneously, and the sadness, as well as the joy, needs respect. This grieving time is a very real part of becoming a mother, and it takes time. Just when I think I’m in my parenting stride, perhaps I’ve had 3 hours of straight sleep, perhaps I managed to cook a nice dinner for the family (in a slow cooker of course, how else?), perhaps I managed to put on fresh clothes in the morning so that I maybe don’t smell like sour milk or poo, perhaps I even brushed my own teeth this morning and put on a fresh bra…. I digress. Anyhow, just when I think I’ve had more #lifewins than Usain Bolt, I’m back to remembering what it was like to go to a restaurant with only my lipstick, a nice pair of jeans and a strange curiosity about how much food and booze I could inhale in one evening. Or worse, I remember the days and nights in alone; I remember the deep sleeps, the warm hugs with my husband, the long hot showers, the peaceful car journeys with the radio playing my favourite pop tunes from the 90’s (as opposed to the Frozen soundtrack start to finish).

The truth is, when I had children, my identity changed. Once upon a time, I came first. I could choose what I wanted, when I wanted it, for how long and with whom. Now, other people come first. And these other people have needs. For much of the time, I am trying to work out what these needs are exactly, and more often than not, I don’t know, and neither do they. Physically, I used to be svelte, my breasts pert, and I maintained my body with care; now it is tired and wounded, functional and beautiful in a whole new and wondrous way. Where once I could have a cup of tea in peace, could poo and pee when I wanted, could think in silence… now, a tiny person who cannot talk is dictating when, how and even why I do everything. In my darkest moments (normally at around 3am with a screaming baby in my arms), it seems so unjust, so goddamn unfair. If I can’t do what I want, and choose the life I want any more, then who the hell am I now?

Clarissa Pinkola Estés states: ‘What must I give more death to today, in order to generate more life? What do I know should die, but am too hesitant to allow to do so?’ As morbid as this sounds, it is true that when a woman births a child, she herself is re-birthed . Out of a woman’s strength emerges a baby, but the soul also releases an identity, an old self. In a way, the old self dies, and a mother is born. It feels right that life moves in cycles, sometimes gracefully, sometimes brutally. Parts of us die and new chapters are born. The question is, in the words of Fleetwood Mac, can I handle the seasons of my life? What parts of my old life are essential to my being, do I need to make sure I keep alive, do I need to tend to ensure I am not lost altogether? And what parts need to be laid peacefully to rest?

It is time to embrace the grieving and respect the crying; my own and my baby’s (because of course I matter too, not just the tiny people). I have a right to miss the old times, to grieve the easiness that was the old life, to feel sad and angry. This new identity is a beautiful yet terrifying and exhausting place to inhabit, and shedding my old skin is a long and complex process for my body and mind to work through. Right now, this new identity is consuming; I’m still learning what to do with my family and myself, how to love tiny people and how to love myself in this skin. I’m grieving who I was, and it can be lonely. What’s keeping me going? Seeing my children smile at me like I’m the sun, moon and stars. Hearing my husband tell me he loves me and that I’m beautiful. And looking in the mirror and knowing that I am, in fact, still me.