In light of Mother’s Day this past weekend, I wanted to take a moment to share my personal story on motherhood.
I wasn’t the girl that grew up dreaming about a husband, four children, and the perfect little white picket fence life.
It’s not that I didn’t enjoy caring for and helping others. Or that I didn’t think that I had the ability to love and nurture. In total transparency, it went a whole lot deeper than having anything to do with me being a mother. Even if I didn’t know that at the time.
I was adamant, almost to the point of rebellious, against the idea of becoming a mother. People would ask me all the time how many kids I wanted, and they would be shocked when I said zero, as if it was a personal offense to them that I’d decided to live a kid-free life. They’d always tell me I would change my mind and I would absolutely scoff at the prospect. I mean, there was no way you could convince me otherwise.
And, to be quite frank, I always felt it was a bit offensive to insinuate that I would be any less of a woman just because I didn’t have any plans on becoming a mother.
(Side Note: why is it that society feels the need to tell people how to live their lives?)
So, consider me shocked when I met and later married a man who played the largest role in reshaping my stance against motherhood, without even trying to.
We met when I was 20 years old. About three months into dating, I told him I did not ever want to have children. I knew I loved him, but out of respect for him, I felt he needed to know that I had already made up my mind about my future. After all, I had never planned on sharing my life with someone, and was far more open to losing the man I loved (I wasn't sure I deserved him anyway) than shifting my perspective on becoming a mother.
I remember the moment perfectly. I expected him to dismiss me, or leave me, or tell me I’d change my mind. But he did none of those things. He told me he’d love me anyway. He said he’d always pictured having kids, but that it wasn’t a dealbreaker for him. I told him that we could have the conversation again in six or so years, and he never brought it up again.
Fast forward about five years, three states, and one marriage later...
By this point we had lived a lot of life together. He had proven to me time and time again that he was an incredible man, partner, and most importantly, nothing like my own father.
That was when I realized that my adamancy about not becoming a mother had absolutely nothing to do with me.
I realized that what I was actually scared of was bringing a child into this world who was only loved by one parent.
No child deserves that.
I realized that my own history-colored-glasses had me subconsciously believing that children were worthy of love from their mother, from their siblings, from their aunts, uncles and grandparents… But their father? Probably not.
Though I had willingly (cheerfully… enthusiastically…) let go of a relationship with my “father” many, many years ago, it wasn’t until I identified that belief, that it lost its power over me. Almost in an instant. Taking with it any lingering control that remained from my father’s hatred towards me growing up.
No longer stunted by past beliefs, childhood traumas and ego-based thoughts surrounding the idea of motherhood—or, more appropriately, parenthood—I realized that my skewed perception of what a father was, could not be applied to my husband.
The relentless viewpoint to never become a mother all of a sudden melted away; allowing me to uncover forbidden desires that I had deeply concealed beneath false truths.
I was able to look at myself for exactly the type of woman that I am: strong, protective, loving, honest, determined, compassionate, nurturing, and bold.
I am: everything my father is not.
I was able to look at my husband for exactly the type of man that he is: loving, gentle, hard working, stable, dependable, safe, playful, motivated, faithful, hilarious, and just… a good egg.
He is: all the things that a father should be, and more.
He is: the reason that I felt safe enough to become a mother.
As I write and reflect on how I got here—having just celebrated my second Mother’s Day—all I can do is think about how different life would have been if the concrete walls that surrounded my heart had been invincible, as I once thought them to be.
A heart that is so full of love, so full of joy, of light, and of possibility. My heart grows each and every day alongside my son—who is bursting at the seams with personality, the sweetest giggles, and the most contagious smiles.
This Mother’s Day, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. For my sweet little Enzo, who made me a mother. For my husband, who unknowingly brings me closer to my truest self. For my mother, who is the most selfless force of nature, and displays unconditional love flawlessly. For so many mothers in other areas of my life who inspire me to be better.
And, also, I am grateful for the woman and mother that I have become. I am grateful that I did not allow my stubbornness, my fears, and my childhood wounds to shape me into a hardened version of myself. A version that would not have allowed me to become a mother.
Instead, I find the beauty and joy in each day, even if that means I have to dig for it.
I seek out discomfort, as it always brings growth.
And, though my light may flicker from time to time, it will never extinguish. Because with love, there is light. No matter the ups, no matter the downs, the love of a mother remains constant.
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