I didn’t know what caring for myself in a supportive, loving way looked like. Yes, I had an amazing network, including my husband and friends. I’d made strides in healing family relationships. But too frequently, I heard a chiding voice in my head saying I hadn’t achieved enough, that I should work harder, faster. I longed to stop that ticker tape from running, and end the narrative that I would never be good enough. The person I really needed to mother was myself.
My feelings about being a mom came into focus one afternoon in a co-worker’s office. She and I were both in our mid-30s and, as was common with our Friday discussions, we meandered into deep territory. Specifically, if we wanted to have kids. My colleague told me how she longed for her own family. “I love my mom so much,” she said, “that I want to see her traits in my child.” Her words stunned me. I’d never felt this way. I wondered, was something missing in me because I hadn’t?
It wasn’t that I didn’t love kids. When I was one myself, I frequently played house with my neighborhood friends and stuck a baby doll under my shirt to imitate a pregnant belly. I was an early babysitter, taking care of my first infant at 12 (which, in hindsight, seems way too early), and by high school, I regularly sat for a family with five children ages 8 and under. I was as accustomed to changing diapers and soothing fussy sleepers as I was to doing homework and going to track practice.
My attention shifted to my career in college, and I threw myself into the pursuit of journalism and writing. I started my first job at a Florida newspaper at 21, and spent the next decade following opportunities up the East Coast. I met and married my husband, and if anyone asked about our plans for a family, I told them the truth—we were dedicated to our career pursuits. I feel fortunate that our friends and family never put pressure on us, and that I never felt societal pressure to change my mind, especially because so many women have the opposite experience.
Around the time of that fateful office conversation, I started detecting signs of what I now know was burnout. I was easily frustrated, simmered with a rage that no spin class could quell, and could never get enough sleep. Through therapy, I realized that I’d been covering up painful realities about my abusive childhood. I wondered if, for much of my life, I’d been working hard—whether at a newspaper or at a babysitting gig—so I didn’t have to encounter the truth.
That truth hit hard when my mom died in 2019. I truly was motherless, and, as I mourned her loss and what our relationship could have been, I also grieved the version of myself that was her daughter. It felt like that part of me had died, too. During the following year’s pandemic and ensuing political and societal upheaval, it became increasingly difficult to navigate the world, never mind needing to help a child do so. I had to reckon with how much I needed to slow down and rest so a happier, more fulfilled version of myself could emerge. It took real effort to say “no” to opportunities if they didn’t fit.
Though it once seemed like my life was shrinking, mothering myself has expanded and grown my world. My circle of friends now includes a joyful band of dancers, and together, we co-organize monthly Pro-Democracy Dance Parties. I’ve channeled my rage and uncovered new confidence by practicing Brazilian jiu-jitsu. I just finished writing a novel that I hope will find a home in the world. When I feel hopeless or alone, I remember to say I love myself, that I am proud.
All of this doesn’t mean that my caretaking couldn’t someday evolve. One day last year, I passed by a bus shelter and saw a poster promoting adoption. What if? I thought. Someday, perhaps. Right now, I’m happy taking care of me.
