(Very) Belated Mother Day Thoughts

It recently occurred to me: I have no photos of myself during my pregnancy or the first year of my daughter’s life. This strikes me as so sad, not because I missed out on the photo opportunity, but because it’s evidence of the self loathing I felt at the time.

Motherhood for me has always been a sort of a struggle. It’s not something that I would say comes easily. Most of the time, it isn’t that easy for me to enjoy. Motherhood, for me, came with a sense of loss. And a sense of obligation. With that came anxiety. Sometimes I feel like I am incapable of loving my daughter fully, because that would require a capacity for loss that I just don’t have. Love and loss being two sides of the same coin. Maybe that’s because I run towards pessimism. I think about these things too much.

When my daughter was born, it was awful. The experience of being in the hospital, plied with drugs, reeling from the complications of those drugs, being plied with more drugs to address those complications, all the while being treated like a problem and a liability by the medical professionals whose job, I thought, was to protect me. . . I’m not trying to rant about how the medical profession treats women (though I’ve got plenty to say about it), but rather how this experience was a telling frame for how motherhood would start for me. A lonely, wild sort of feeling. One marked by a painful awareness of how fragile everything is.

I say all this because I don’t think women talk about it enough. It’s just joy and blessings, and I-wouldn’t-change-it-for-anything-in-the-world generalizations and glosses. Maybe the occasional complaint about lack of sleep or free time. But it’s almost sacrilege to discuss pain and loss in regards to motherhood. You can’t even say that sometimes the world feels like an unsafe place and it feels almost stupid to bring another kid into that. You can’t speak of the heavy, heavy weight of all that responsibility.

Without the platitudes, can we just talk about it? Just to sit honestly with our fears for a little while?

After my daughter was born, I tried to speak about my experiences of fear, anxiety, terror. All these little griefs. And I was told just to be grateful, that “all’s well that ends well,” as if speaking of my pain would … what? Tempt fate? Anger god? Make people uncomfortable, most likely. But result of this silence was only to feel more isolated and shamed for feeling complicated feelings. To any other mothers out there dealing with their feelings: This life is not a box that you need to neatly fit yourself in. There’s much more space in this world than that.

Dark Night of the Soul

Sometimes our fears, our grief, our betrayals are a blessing in disguise. They can be transformative. If we are willing, this dark night of the soul can teach us about our true nature. When we find that we don’t know who we are anymore, that we are so lost in the darkness, we can loosen our grip on our small identities, the impermanent and superficial things that we often take as representative of the whole of us. We can finally glimpse ourselves as a part of something greater.

Pushing Through

It’s possible I am pushing through solid rock

in flintlike layers, as the ore lies, alone;

I am such a long way in I see no way through,

and no space: everything is close to my face,

and everything close to my face is stone.

I don’t have much knowledge yet in grief

so this massive darkness makes me small.

You be the master: make yourself fierce, break in:

then your great transforming will happen to me,

and my great grief cry will happen to you.

Rainier Marie Rilke, Translated by Robert Bly

Don’t be afraid, even though you will be afraid. This dark night is a gift.