The Grief in Motherhood

My mom came to visit the day after Adeline was born.

Within the first few hours that she was there, she commented on how attentive AJ was with the baby. She seemed excited but surprised. In awe actually.

She said, "He has already changed more diapers than your father did with both you and your brother."

This hit me in the chest.

She is right. AJ is a wonderful father, and I'm so happy that Adeline gets to have that experience. It is something I have deeply, deeply wanted for my children that I prioritized when I chose my partner for this life.

At the same time, hearing this brought up a deep, unfathomable layer of grief that I had not fully felt yet. Grief for my parentified childhood, grief for what I missed out on, grief for my little self who wasn't wanted, loved, cherished, cared for by her Dad.

The sharp hint of new tears.

They never tell you how much of motherhood is grief.

It's left me feeling tired and exposed.

It is joy, yes. It is so much joy wrapped up in a tiny, beautiful soul.

The joy is laced with unfelt pain, unprocessed grief, trauma that never made its way quite to the surface.

I've done a lot of healing. And I tell you now, nothing could have prepared me for the wave of heartache that struck me in a vastly different way than anything I've experienced before.

In the past four weeks, I cannot count the number of tears I've cried for my younger self, mixed in with the tears of happiness I have cried over my darling daughter. In the joy and the beauty I'm experiencing now, this pain is spotlighted against it all.

One of these things is not like the other.

I am so glad that my daughter never has to experience this same kind of pain that I've felt. I remind myself, I have worked hard for this. And in this realization, in witnessing firsthand the other side of the proverbial coin, I unearth another layer of grief for myself.

Not to hold onto it. Not to center it.

To feel it, and let it go.

That gets to be then. This is now.

I go about my days as a new mother. I respond to her call. I pick her up when she cries. I comfort her, I hold her, I stay close and ready and aware of what she may need at any given moment, even when I am tired and worn down and feel that I have nothing left to give.

I do this willingly. I don't resent her for it. This is part of the deal. This is part of being a parent. She is not here to make my life easier. She is here to be.

She does not owe me for this service. I am here to witness her, to facilitate this growth, to do all that I can do for her so that she can breathe life into her dreams, in her own time, in her own way.

I cannot fathom any other way. In feeling this, my past experience becomes unfathomable as well.

This is a good thing.

It ends with me.

When I look back at my old family photos, all I can see is the emptiness in his eyes.

I'm reminded of what my Mom told me about the first (and only) time she left me alone with my father as a baby. I was about a month old, and he was supposed to be taking care of me while she went to the store.

When she got home, she found me in the same place she had left me: in my swing. The door was closed, tears plastered down my cheeks. I was physically shaking because I had been crying for so long.

Something broke open in me the first time she told me this. I did not consciously remember it, but my body did. I cried and cried for that sweet baby girl left all alone.

As heartbreaking as this feels, a single snapshot into my early life, the contrast is clear.

While we will never be perfect, while we will make our own mistakes, the foundation we have built is night and day from what came before.

In processing all this grief, in wanting to do things exactly right and having things turn out differently than expected, I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.

I was looking through my maternity photos when I saw it. Can you see it too?

I have already broken a generational curse.

Because of the healing I have done, through my choice of Dad for my little one, she stands on a different foundation from birth: with two parents who love her, love each other, and deeply want her in the world.

The grief is strong, and deserves to be honored. And I am infinitely grateful that my little one gets to begin this life from a new place, infinitely held with so much less to carry.

My inner child heals a little bit every time her needs are filled.

Sweet Adeline, we love you.