Who am I?

When the hats are gone and my head is bare.

Self-portrait @jadrachelefox

“The woman that does not require validation from anyone is the most feared individual on the planet. Our desire for validation is far older than the internet.” – Pandora Sykes.

When I became a mother three-and-a-half years ago, every part of me was obliterated. Everything I’d done now did not matter. All the confidence I had built dissolved. I was 32 years old, and I was back at square one. Back to not knowing what I was doing. Who I was. Why have I been put on this planet? It certainly wasn’t to be a mother… I had already proclaimed I was hopeless at that. My baby screamed all day. Well, not all day but for 12 hours at a time, and in the beginning, I was told it was my fault. Not in those words, but that’s all I heard when the GP explained, “babies cry more than you think.” He was wrong. As it turned out, my son had reflux and a dairy allergy, which was a welcomed diagnosis, as was the medication that helped soothe the acid from burning his esophagus.

The damage to my ego had been done. Without even realising it, I was leaning out of my new role as a mother. If I wasn’t truly trying, it felt okay that I wasn’t any good at it. I took whatever little time I had to write, catch up with friends, be child-free, walk solo, consume too many wines and stay out as long as possible to avoid the extensive bedtime routine, and I did all this to feel a fraction like my former self. I made a point of telling people I was going back to work and felt uneasy being just a mother instead of relishing in what little time I had with my son at home, without having to run off to work or become distracted by phone calls and deadlines.

My husband would tell me I was doing a fabulous job and that our son was so lucky to have a mother who takes care of him the way I do, but the feedback I received from my direct boss (my baby) was that I was failing miserably. He was unsettled, hard to feed, slept only in 25-minute increments, and released a blood-curdling scream when placed in the car, the pram, or anywhere that wasn’t on top of me. So I started a blog, took on freelance work, and stayed up all night to work. I was running off caffeine, wine and 4 hours of sleep, and the highs that came with external validation. Not only the financial compensation but the praise and positive feedback from strangers in the form of love hearts, comments and dms. 

At my core, I was a writer; at least, that’s who I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be just somebody’s mother, even though I loved my son wholeheartedly. I wanted to be me, but I was a shadow of my former self, chasing around a body I no longer recognised. It was only recently, after having a discussion on the very topic of identity, that I realised mine was so fragile to begin with. That the old me I had put on a pedestal as being near perfect was not at all. She had as much self-doubt as I did when I was drowning in the depths of motherhood and the same self-doubt I still battle with now. The truth of it is, I never really lost anything by having my son, but gained so much more. I learnt my value, admitting my faults as a human being and proving to myself that the qualities that motherhood tore out of me; things such as compassion, resilience, empathy, and appreciation for this beautiful life I am privileged to lead, are what matters. Though some of my quirks are less than desirable (overthinking included!), together with my many layers, they make up my very existence. What I do is not who I am, and if it all came crumbling down, if everything and everyone vanished tomorrow, there is comfort in knowing I will still have me.