10 things I would tell myself before becoming a mother (Part one)

Looking back at that woman with the round belly and a baby jostling for space from her diaphragm to her hips, what would I tell her?

This time a year ago, I was uncomfortably pregnant. My left SI joint was trying to break away from my pelvis, my lungs were stuffed into my throat, and my nine-and-a-half-months-long insomnia made my eyes feel like they were being scrubbed by steel wool.

In other words, I was ready to give birth.

Ahead lay a shimmering portal called motherhood. Countless people had crossed it, and yet no one could tell me what it was really like. Not in a way I could understand. The aphorisms themselves were familiar.

It’s the hardest and best thing you’ll ever do.

Your life will never be the same.

Say goodbye to sleep.

Sure, I had done hard things; my life had taken turns that couldn’t be undone; I had pulled all-nighters reading the latest Harry Potter release…and yet, I sensed I had no idea what was to come. The curiosity was insatiable.

What will it be like to become a parent?

You become a parent in an instant, but you learn what it’s like to be a parent for the rest of your life. I’m only a year in. I know a bit more now, that kind of weathered understanding that only comes from facing down this singular experience. “Singular,” as in the act of parenting itself, and “singular,” as in my own experience. No two parenting journeys are the same. Please let this stand as my big fat disclaimer: I am sharing about my experience of motherhood, and mine alone.

Looking back at that woman with the round belly and a baby jostling for space from her diaphragm to her hips, what would I tell her? How would I articulate the mystery she so earnestly wanted to solve?

The short answer: I’d tell her nothing.

Not knowing what to expect isn’t a problem. It’s the whole point. You get to figure it out as you go. You unfurl on your own timeline, a sinuous rhythm dictated by larger forces, like nature and God and karma and things we can’t understand. It is life, amplified: the dark stumble through the forest that we all engage in, aided only by the light of a few fireflies.

Still, for the sake of reflection (and I do love reflection), I have some things I’d like to share. Nuggets I’ve learned that may or may not help someone before their parenthood journey starts, and will more likely provide solace while it’s unfolding.

She sits there on her couch, rubbing her jumping belly, daydreaming about squishy bodies and sleep-heavy limbs. She wonders who’s there, inside her uterus; she wonders who’s there, inside her own heart. I reach out and take her hand. She looks at me with all the attention she can summon in her sleep-deprived body. And she asks: What will it be like?

Here’s what I would tell her. My insights and advice collected over a fleeting year of becoming a parent.

1. There is no going “back”

Our culture is obsessed with “back.” Getting your body “back.” Going “back” to work. Getting “back” to a sense of self.

Hear me now: there is no going back after having a child. There is only forward. Once you embrace this, it can be one of the most thrilling parts of your journey.

Parenthood isn’t a detour. It is a metamorphosis. It is a calling you’ve answered, one way or another, to become a different version of yourself. The terrain beneath your very feet has changed. You can’t reach the land of “before,” and the more energy you expend on “back,” the less you have for taking in the views.

2. Grieve the losses

Inherent in change is grief. My Zen teacher once told me “all life is grief.” What he meant was that life is full of impermanence. Every breath you take, every thought you have, every emotion you feel…in an instant, it’s gone, and you’ll never get it back. Most of the time, we walk around blind to impermanence. It isn’t until something drastic happens—a car accident, the call that a loved one has been lost, a diagnosis, the birth of a child—that we’re shaken awake to the truth of life.

It is always changing.   

A skill for metabolizing this reality is learning to grieve. Grieve the fact that you can’t go “back.” Grieve the changes to your body, if that brings you anguish; grieve that your relationship to work has changed; grieve that your other relationships have changed; grieve that your “self” has morphed into a new shape. Grieve the losses of your previous life (sleep, down time, simplicity).

Now, sit in the discomfort of transformation and breathe.

3. Let it take time

Another thing our culture is obsessed with: immediate results. There is nothing immediate about metamorphosis. It can’t be fit into a cute social media post or a journaling session. 

Let motherhood take time. Let it be earth shattering. Let it shake your life apart and don’t rush to assemble the pieces. 

My pelvic floor physical therapist said I would be in a fog for the first year. My writer friends said to wait a year before putting expectations on my craft. I didn’t want to believe any of them. I wanted to be the exception: to feel exactly like myself, plus a baby; to adhere to all my previous deadlines and ambitious goals; to not need to transform because I didn’t yet know what I was giving up.

And they were all right: giving myself a year to chart even the smallest semblance of “forward” has been the most generous decision I’ve made in all of motherhood.

Because, when you give “forward” space, it can organically take shape. It can mold you into the human you’re becoming. And let me tell you: when you surrender to the dismantling, you’ll see things about yourself you've never seen before. You’ll meet pieces of yourself you’ve never met before.  

And you won’t want to go “back.”

4. You will hold multiple realities at once

When people said parenting was the hardest and best thing they ever did, I thought they were sharing two discrete realities.

Like: “My child was acting out today and it was so hard to keep my patience.” And, on a separate day: “We went to the water park and had so much fun!”

Before becoming a parent, “hard” and “best” were binaries. For a year, I recorded how I felt every day in an app called Daylio. I could look back and see which days were a big smile and which days were a frown.

And then, parenthood took my perspectives and smeared them together.

I was so exhausted the world around me was melting, yet my son smiled and it was the most breathtaking sight.

I needed a break, to take a shower, any moment of autonomy, and he only wanted to be in my arms; even as I yearned for a breath to myself, I couldn’t be upset because of how he stilled when I held him.

He thrashed when I took away the sharp weeding tool he’d found outside, yet I marveled at his opinions taking shape, a new developmental marker.

They all existed together. The good and bad; the hard and easy; the joyful and challenging. I didn’t expect motherhood to be all things, all at once, and for it to feel as natural as a sunrise.

5. Welcome to exquisite tension

“Mom guilt” is a popular phrase mothers use when they do something for themselves and feel as if they should be with their child instead. 

I haven’t resonated with the emotion “guilt.” Guilt is when I say something thoughtless to my partner. Guilt is when I don’t get back to someone’s text for weeks.

Instead, when it comes to motherhood, I feel exquisite tension. Tension, because I genuinely yearn to do two things at once.

I want to attend yoga and I want to be putting my son to bed. I want to work on my book and I want to take him to the park. I want to go on a date with my partner and I’m worried our son will miss us.

None of these things are wrong, they simply conflict. I can’t do both. I am a limited human being. When I pick one, the other gnaws. I wonder if it will always feel like this.

Read Part Two next week. Subscribe to get it straight to your inbox!