The Blurred Existence of Motherhood

When I was pregnant, I was still me, although I knew that I was more than me now, and it wasn’t long before I felt the overwhelming and extraordinarily frightening sensation of being responsible for this little person’s life. Their life was literally in my hands…or womb. They are me, and I am them. At what point do they have their own personality, their own existence, their own soul? All throughout the pregnancy, it felt a bit of both — she is me, but she is also herself, then to some degree, I am also her. 

Then she was born and it felt as though half my heart would forever live externally in her. I am no longer just me. My existence is both me, and her. 

Who am I, now she is here? I am me, but so much more than I was, because now there are two of me. Which is beautiful, but hard. I used to be able to go off on a whim, to run for kilometres in the bush or by the beach, spend hours alone, change my mind suddenly about what I was going to do that day. Now I am sitting on a couch, with her in my arms, and it's exquisite but also painful, as I am hungry and thirsty but I don't want to move as it took too long to get her to sleep. I need the toilet — I manage to go, while still holding her so she doesn't wake up. The rug in front of the couch desperately needs a vacuum, but when can I do that? Having a shower becomes my favourite thing to do, to feel clean, to have a breath alone, to also sometimes drown out the crying, or sometimes not, when I rush out of the shower, to find her mercifully asleep, and I was just hearing phantom cries. 

When my existence becomes solely about her sleeping, her feeding, her crying. I am not me anymore, or I am just a part of me. The bigger part is now her. 

At first, she was literally attached to me. Then the placenta comes out and a part of me is now separate to me, but still attached to her. Then that physical cord is tethered, but she is on my breast, sleeping in my arms. For the first few weeks, I didn't move more than a few metres away from her. It's strange to think of the physical distance growing longer as they grow older. At first it's metres, and even that feels a bit odd. Things only feel right when I am holding her. Then slowly over a few more weeks, it stretches out. I might leave her in with her father or my parents to go for a walk, go to the shops… but I am always back within less than an hour and never go more than a few kilometers. 

Then, time again stretches the distance, and soon enough I have a night away from her, then several nights away, and then at some point I fly on a plane without her and I am many many kilometers away, and then once day, she will fly on a place away from me, and her physical being will be on the opposite side of the world. She is so far away, but yet as half my heart, so always, she is right here too. 

Inspired by the beautiful words and photos from Tabitha Soren. You can find her article here.