finding spaciousness

or, not becoming a martyr to motherhood

When I time travel back to this time last year, I’m a completely different being.

I’m six months postpartum and my hair is at the height of falling out. This takes me by surprise, but also not really, because so much of postpartum is an unexpected mystery.

Every morning I exit the shower with a clump of wet hair in my hand, feeling both horrified and fascinated that there is any hair left on my head. I examine it carefully, taking note as to whether today’s clump is bigger than the last, and mourn my changing curl pattern. I ball up the tangled mass and drop it into the toilet, wondering¹ if my hair will ever bounce back to the springy coils that have been a part of my identity for as long as I can remember.

It’s a metaphor of sorts for what I was experiencing internally: a shedding of self, unsure and worried about who I’d be on the other side.

Even before my child was born, I began mourning my sense of self. I thought that once she arrived, I’d just be a mom. There would be no becoming, or a Princess Diaries-like journey, but rather, I’d seamlessly transform like Cinderella. My new motherhood identity would be downloaded into my consciousness and that would be that.

What actually happened when I gave birth is that my body and soul broke into a million pieces and scattered throughout the universe, transforming, rearranging, and now awkwardly resettling in ways I’m still learning to understand.

When I look back at photos of my daughter at this time last year, I see a baby on her back learning to roll over. A precious being who couldn’t sit upright without support. Someone who tasted her first bite of solid food—a mushed-up banana!

But most of all, what I see is my blob of a baby becoming a brand new, fully formed, human. And if I’m kind to myself, and allow all the grace and compassion that people tell new mothers to give to themselves, I can see myself becoming a new one too.

When kids enter puberty, there’s a societal understanding of the hormonal, social, and physical changes taking place within them. We forgive them for their moody outbursts, we understand their bodily changes as a natural occurrence, and we’re endeared by the way that they awkwardly transform from child to teen.

Most people don’t realize that becoming a mother is as pivotal as puberty, and that this transformation has its own name - Matrescence. Coined by anthropologist Dana Raphael in the 1970’s, Matrescence refers to the physical, emotional, social, and psychological changes that a woman experiences as she transitions into motherhood.

In her book Matrescence, Lucy Jones describes it as a profound rewiring of the brain and body. She writes:

During pregnancy and the early weeks and months of motherhood a blitz of birth and death was taking place within my brain. Cells were being born and cells were dying. Areas of the brain were shrinking and others were growing. Juiced with a multitude of hormones, I was being newly sculpted.

Matrescence is not just a biological process; it’s an emotional tug-of-war.

Between your needs and your baby’s needs

Between your intuition and anxiety

Between ideal expectations and bumpy realities

Between grief and bliss, oppression and ecstasy

And what’s been surprising to me is that navigating this tug-of-war is actually what transformed me into a mother.

You see, if there are aspects of your life that you cared about before you had a baby, motherhood often requires that you sacrifice them - this is what worried me the most about becoming a mother. Some people sacrifice them forever and some people sacrifice them until they come up for air.

Over the last 9 months I’ve been reading Jones’ Matrescence in 10 and 15 page spurts because the topic is so visceral for me - I can only take so much in during one sitting. Understanding the concept of Matresence has given me permission to fight for the things I’ve felt the need to sacrifice. To be reminded that becoming a mother is a rewiring of self, not just a transition into caregiver. That there are parts of me worth fighting for that are for me alone. That being a mother doesn’t require that I fully submit to pulls of the tug-of-war, but that I allow myself to win a few rounds.

These days, that means missing a morning with my daughter to go to yoga. Occasionally missing bedtime so I can reconnect with friends. Not planning every waking moment of a weekend around her enrichment. And maybe even bigger, it means finding more spaciousness in the everyday to keep becoming a fuller version of myself. This time last year, when my baby was just six months old and we were in the thick of it, I could have never envisioned a life where there was space for me alone.

But last Sunday, she turned 18 months, and in a way, so did I. Everyday I marvel in awe at how she’s blossomed from a sweet baby into a silly, talkative, curious child, who dances and jumps and loves so freely. And now, I’m finding space to feel that way about myself, too.

Here’s a playlist to help you find some spaciousness this week.

<3, Meghan

1. My hair did in fact bounce back, thanks to the AI robots (aka Claude) who gave me a custom hair plan. More AI for this and not taking jobs, please.