Unfinished Conversations

My writing doesn’t contain a ton of deep insight about motherhood. That’s not by accident.

There are too many opinions, perspectives, and experiences that I simply wouldn’t be able to do justice to it all. I felt like my own opinion, perspective, and experience would therefore be… lacking in some way, I guess? 

Today, I’m writing an essay about parenthood. It’s more like an open letter to my peers, and since most of my peers aren’t parents yet, I’d say it’s worth reading.

We shy away from discussing the reality of having children. We hide behind a convenient veil of “not ready yet.” But I think that needs to change. Just because you talk about having children, it doesn’t mean you wake up with morning sickness.

Silence breeds ignorance. Parenthood, particularly for our demographic, is deeply misunderstood, distorted by whispers and worst-case scenarios. And frankly, we’ve been complacent bystanders in this self-imposed ignorance.

I, for one, was perfectly content to remain blissfully clueless.

I formed most of my ideas about motherhood based on social media, where it’s portrayed solely as extremes: the perpetually happy, picture-perfect mom, and the martyr mom drowning in laundry, spit up, and sleeplessness.

Both felt incomplete, both felt daunting, and yet, they formed the foundation of my perception of this life-altering decision.

I saw zero value in having nuanced or serious conversations about parenthood because I figured I’d just cross that bridge when I reached it. The problem was that I ended up finding the bridge a lot later than if I’d just asked for directions and been like, ‘yo wheres this bridge?’ and some parent would’ve been like,

‘there’s the bridge, it’s beautiful, be careful, enjoy it, take pictures but not too many and have fun love you bye.’

In the last MONTH, I have talked to no fewer than five mothers that were seriously anxious through their pregnancy, or even delayed parenthood because of fabricated fears, just like I did. We were all bracing ourselves for a storm that never came.  

We had prepared for the bad, but not the good. And once the good came raining down in abundance, we simply didn’t know what to do with it. I remember that feeling so well.

When I was finally ready to start thinking about whether I was ‘ready’ to have a baby, the ideas and questions in my mind were so entirely irrelevant, so completely misguided, and so plain dumb. It’s insane, really, how the mind can conjure up worries that are so detached from reality.

They didn’t come out of nowhere though. They were fed to me by a particular brand of 2010s social media and popular culture that (dare I say) devalues family, children, and anything that resembles traditional values.

When popular narratives focus on the misery and drudgery of motherhood – the body image and mental health issues, the career-death, the loss of alone time, the sleeplessness – it’s no wonder the thought of having a kid starts to seem like a drag.

I recently discovered a subreddit called r/Fencesitter, for (you guessed it) people on the fence about whether they want kids.

Here are some of the posts on the group:

“I know social media is not real life, but being exposed to all this negative parenting content really pushes me back toward hell no and hits me in the anxiety gut, which is maybe the point? Are they reaching for engagement?”

“I wish more people talked about the positives. A big reason for my fencesitting is the fact that I seem to only hear complaints from coworkers, the people I spend the most time with. Jokes about “don’t have kids, they ruin your life”. Like are you seriously trying to warn me or are you just letting off steam?”

I felt exactly like this person.

A couple of years ago, I felt like I was at the prime of my life. I was happily married. My husband and I were living in our own apartment. We lived the DINK life (double income no kids). I was working remotely, doing a job I loved. 

And the moment a fleeting thought about maybe, possibly someday, having a child entered my brain, the almighty social media algorithms caught a whiff of it. I was bombarded with parenting content.

Given my bend towards anxiety, I wasn’t sent the happy parenting content. Not the cute baby laughing content.

No, I was sent the relatable-motherhood-nightmare content.

I watched reel after reel of mothers describing the toll that children took on their bodies, the loss of self, the crushing loneliness, the exhaustion – all intertwined with fleeting moments of joy and an inexplicable assertion that it was all, somehow, worth it?

It seemed deeply sus.

And since most of my close friends and peers weren’t parents or anywhere close to making that decision, I found myself reaching out to acquaintances and near-strangers, hungry for their personal insights into motherhood.

Their take on it was overwhelmingly positive and encouraging, and seemed to counterbalance the grim versions of motherhood I had seen online. They talked about the unparalleled joy of parenting, the fleeting nature of the hardships, and the fulfilment they found in watching their child learn, play, grow, and laugh.

So naturally, I began wondering if they were telling the truth. Were they trying to sell me on the idea? Were they secretly working for Big Baby^TM and trying to recruit me?

This too, seemed deeply sus. I could trust nobody.

Now, having experienced parenthood myself, I recognize the absolute stupidity of my initial judgments.

Back to r/Fencesitter, here’s what someone shared in response to the earlier questions about why the narrative around parenting is so negative:

“Misery loves company. Negative stuff is all easy to talk about and easy to relate to. It’s much harder to talk about how I stare at pictures of her fat little hands when she’s not here, how I want to kiss her little cheeks over and over, how shockingly proud I feel when she learns a new skill, how overwhelming and vast my love is that I miss her when she’s napping.

If I talked like that, people would think I was some kind of #tradwife or just a total lunatic. It’s much easier to be like “another day, another last minute outfit change after the baby puked applesauce all over me” than it is to say “another day, another moment contemplating the ineffable wonder of the universe after my baby said ‘mmm’ to indicate she was hungry, unlocking a small piece of communication and paving the way for language development”

I’ll admit I cried a tiny bit after reading that, because now I feel exactly like this person.

Talking about the profound joy of motherhood isn’t easy. On one side, there’s the fear of seeming insincere, as if I’m glossing over the challenges or flaunting my happiness.

On the other side, there’s a more serious concern: I worry that by sharing my joy, I might inadvertently silence or dismiss the struggles that are very real for many.

The sacrifices are very real. The never-ending sense of responsibility exists. The need for support is PARAMOUNT. I get the need to hold space for conversations about difficult and stigmatized things –

But when we overcorrect, we risk turning the conversation about parenthood into some kind of warning, rather than recognizing it for what it is: One of the most deeply human experiences you could ever have.

When my scrawny little newborn was placed by my side and we spent our first week together, I felt many things. But one of them was anger. Social media warned me aplenty about all of the ways my life would change after I became a mom. I just didn’t realize that most of those changes would be for the better.

I was angry at years of being told that I could only self-actualize by reaching inward, fishing out my hopes and dreams, and going after them. I was angry that not enough people told me that motherhood could be one of those hopes and dreams.

I was angry at the skewed narratives that had me fearing the greatest joy of my life. I was angry that I fell for it and didn’t question it.

I was told that motherhood would be a constant state of “less.” Less time, less sleep, less fun, less travel, less money. But here I am, a year and a half in, overflowing with more.

Not a day has gone by where I didn’t feel a love so unimaginable that my heart physically felt like it was singing.

In the last year, even through my worst phases, I haven’t gone a day without laughing till my face hurts while spending time with her.

I love my husband in a whole new dimension because he’s my daughter’s father. He and I understand each other in such surprising new ways because of our shared love for her. There’s nobody else in the world who understands, at a cellular level, how I feel about my daughter – apart from him.

I marvel at my daughter’s relationship with grandparents, and her joy when she sees them, even as a tiny little baby. I treasure the love that my friends and family lavish on her and can’t believe how lucky and loved she is by so many people.

Here’s this little baby, a whole person, with a will, mind and emotions of her own, and I get to be her mother. I get to know her from day one. I get to guide her tiny dimpled hand and help shape her world. What a complete and utter privilege.

Do all my other identities still exist? Sure they do. But motherhood is now the lens by which I view life, and it is the clearest, most authentic lens I’ve ever looked through.

This isn’t a loss of self. It’s a magnificent expansion.

What I’m trying to do in this messy ramble of thoughts, is combat the prevailing notion of children being talked about as an inconvenience, an obstacle, or some hurdle in the path to your perfect life.

It’s worth challenging the idea that only when you’ve lived your life must you “allow” yourself the “inconvenience” of children. They’re not just a responsibility we take on when we think our best days are behind us. 

Now in broaching this topic, I’m fully aware that my experiences might really not resonate with everyone. I’m not really trying to be relatable here.

We ought to remember that everything that’s messy isn’t real, and everything that’s happy isn’t fake. I think we know that by now.

This is a conversation I want to have in spite of it being unrelatable, and in spite of knowing that my situation isn’t everyone’s situation. In spite of knowing that I’m privileged in many ways that directly impact how delightful my experience of motherhood is. I refuse to believe there aren’t others just like me.

I know for a fact there are enough people that are ready for more balanced conversations about being a parent. This essay was mostly for them.

I will wrap up by quickly addressing two more groups:

Those who choose to be childfree

You’re safe here. Parenthood is NOT a path for everyone – I’m convinced of this more so now than ever.

I don’t know if it’s happening to us yet, but I’m sure that in a couple of years, the relentless pressure to procreate will probably obscure the massive landscape of possibilities available to women – of which motherhood is just one of them.

There are countless ways to experience a meaningful life. Some people will find profound fulfilment in parenthood, while others will pour their energy and talents into different stuff and enrich the world in other important ways.

I still think your perspective is both important and necessary in these conversations, as a citizen of the world and, obviously, as a former baby.

In the meantime, thank you for being an exceptional aunty or uncle.

Those who maybe sorta kinda feel ready to start but aren’t sure if they’re ready

I see you. It’s a scary place, I remember it.

I find myself coming back to this jaw-dropping piece of literature called ‘Letters to a Young Poet’  by Rainer Maria Rilke. I read it every time I find myself paralyzed by questions that may or may not have answers.

“Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them.

And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

It’s okay to sit with your questions and live the questions without being in a desperate hurry to answer them. The agony of not having clear answers shouldn’t leave you frozen.

Most of my questions about parenthood remain unanswered, not because I haven’t talked to the right people or found the right subreddit, but because I’m still living the questions. I probably will continue to do that for a long, long time.

When I started out, this was supposed to be a letter to my peers. I guess now more than anything, this has turned into a letter to my former self, the person with so many foolish but sincere questions.

Now that I’ve lived my way into a few answers, this essay is a place for those answers to live too.

I’m hoping to invite more voices into the conversation and dismantle the exclusivity of the ‘mom’s club’ when it comes to parenting and children.

Because somewhere between the desperate and difficult confessions, and the impossibly picture-perfect life, there’s the reality that many of us will experience in the first years of motherhood –

It’s so much better than we were told to prepare for.

---

While writing this essay, I listened to the song I used to play while I was pregnant. It’s called ‘Hold You Dear’ by The Secret Sisters. I hadn’t really bothered to read about the meaning of the song or what the songwriter said was the inspiration behind it.

When I got curious one day, I found a Twitter thread written by Laura, who is one of the sisters in the duo. She’s the lady who wrote the song.

I hope it moves you in the same way it moved me:

I never expected to have children. I spent my whole life convincing myself that it wasn’t for me…that I was too selfish or busy or career-motivated to be any good at it.

But then I watched my grandmothers die. Noble, safe, peaceful deaths, in their homes, surrounded by their children and grandchildren and provided with every possible comfort until the very end.

I hated when people would try to change my mind on having kids.

Always with the “but who will take care of you when you’re old?” And I always argued back, “You shouldn’t have kids just so that you have a built-in nurse!”

I didn’t have a baby with my death in mind. But I did see through a softer lens how beautiful it is to build a family. I saw how, when the world flips the wrong way…loved ones still cling. And so, it was a witness of dying that made me choose to create a lineage.

I got the positive pregnancy test unexpectedly one morning, right before leaving for a weekend songwriting retreat. My first reaction was to FaceTime Lydia, where we screamed and cried and I told her it couldn’t be true. But it was.

We went to the retreat on Smith Lake, me still reeling from the news, but trying to think about songs. I snuck away from my sister that morning, and heavy with emotion, I wrote “Hold You Dear,” in less than an hour.

I remember those moments-feeling terrified and trying to be excited, but also realizing that time would not be my friend as I waited for, welcomed, and raised my first baby.

It hasn’t been. It has flown by, as every other parent told me it would. I grieve and celebrate the passage of each milestone, and long to pause it all for just a little while. This song has become my mantra for parenting.

When I am busy, I listen to the sermon I wrote that morning with a tiny baby growing inside me and I stop what I’m doing when he reaches his arms upward, and I hold him. Keeping my promise to the one I hope will hold me, in return, when I walk from this life into the next. 

“You’re a part of me and the one I love.
The sweetest years won’t tarry.
You will reach for me when my arms are full
And I will lay down the things I carry
And I will hold you dear.”
–– Laura