That’s what I’ve believed for as long as I can remember, anyway. It just took me a while to figure out what my reasons were.

Motherhood altered my thinking, of course.

If I could choose only one message my soul is here to share with others, given all that I have been through, it is this: Motherhood can bring us home to our true self.

The most authentic, alive version of you that you were always destined to be.

Before the world, and your experiences in this lifetime, changed you in so many ways.

Coming home to yourself happens so gradually that, sometimes, I forget how completely I have changed as a person. Recently I was reminded of the distance between the girl I became growing up and the woman I am now.

My oldest friend celebrated turning 35 with a day out: lunch, drinks, karaoke, and lots of laughs. One of the women joining us I have known since I was around two years old, but haven’t seen in about five or six years.

We found ourselves chatting alone at one point and she admitted she had been nervous about my attendance that day. She shared her concerns about us having nothing in common now, and how she felt we simply wouldn’t get along because of our differences.

To her surprise, we had a great time together, sharing deep chats and giggles, alike. By her own admission, she had judged me before getting to know the person I have become. She knew our lives had went in very different directions and made an assumption based upon that.

I was taken aback at first. No one wants to feel judged by someone whose company they have just enjoyed for a few hours. Yet, when I stopped to consider her feelings, I concluded that perhaps it was fair of her to think this way. After all, how I move in the world now is not even close to how I did in our teenage years and early twenties when we knew each other well.

My values, my beliefs, my interests, my confidence and self belief have all evolved astronomically since those days of wearing the 'party girl’ mask. It was reasonable to expect we now shared very little common ground, outside of growing up together and both of us now being Mothers.

As we grow and change, there is, of course, a natural ebb and flow away from some people, and towards others. This is all part of the human experience.

I do believe everyone we meet and hold any kind of relationship with - be it a dear one or not - is brought into our life for a reason. A karmic tie, a soul lesson, a mirror to reflect back what we must understand about ourselves.

When we see others evolving in some way that allows them to honour their own truth and be their most authentic self, this can be a gentle invitation to ask ourselves: am I too being true to myself?

As we observe that evolution in others, it can stir radical honesty within ourselves.

Along my own healing journey and path back home to myself, I was actually triggered, at times, by women who were able to show up as their most alive, authentic, wacky self. I wanted that.

I longed to accept my shadows and have the confidence to shine my light in the world. Sometimes, meeting others who did this so effortlessly, left a bitter taste of resentment in my mouth.

I know now that discomfort is a message. Communication from my own inner compass. Follow those breadcrumbs. I had to ask myself why it was so painful to witness others shining their light so brightly, especially the women in the depths of early Motherhood?

If they can do it, why not I?

Cognitive dissonance. This phrase always sticks in my mind in such scenarios. When your beliefs and values of who you are at the core, come into direct conflict with your actions, the inner turmoil is immense.

There comes a point when we have to make a choice: build a home in that discomfort, or let your actions mirror what you already know in your heart to be true.

That moment, for me, arrived in Motherhood.

I could no longer behave in ways that did not reflect who I truly am inside. That discomfort was eating me alive and, honestly, I couldn’t tell my own daughter to simply “be you,” if I wasn’t doing it myself. Hypocritical, perhaps.

Thus, the masks slowly dropped, the conditioning gently undone, the inner stories quietly rewritten. Until what was left underneath was a woman comfortable in her own skin, using her own voice and simply being herself.

Not who she thinks she should be for anyone else’s benefit, or who she had to be to survive growing up, but just me, imperfections and all.

Let me be clear, I am sure I have many ego deaths and rebirths to come in my life yet. I suspect there are a great many lessons to learn and a lot more of that sticky discomfort to wade through, but I know I have overcome one of life’s greatest hurdles already: how to be true to myself.

Motherhood forced me to take the leap. Without the miracle of creation existing within me, and my journey through the birth portal, I’m not sure I would have ever fully accepted who I am. Hiding was the easier option.

I learned long ago that I am not here for an easy ride. My life is tapestry of the highest highs and lowest lows. A full kaleidoscope of emotions, with Motherhood holding the most vibrant of hues.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

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There are moments when I feel like I am still the naive 25 year old growing new life for the first time, with many lessons yet to learn.

Then I will have a flash of recognition in a seemingly unremarkable moment. A sudden realisation at how much I have irrevocably transformed in the last nine years.

This past weekend I sat in ceremony with myself, gentle music playing and a beautifully rich cacao, made with loving care.

I have enjoyed this sacred practice many times before, but something shifted on this occasion. Something profound.

As I held the warm mug between my hands, letting my gaze fall softly through the rising steam, I felt my eyes fill with tears. Not the sad, bitter tears of loss or regret, but tears of pure gratitude. For in that moment, perhaps for the first time ever, I realised with certainty that I really, truly LOVE myself.

I grew up in a loving home. I know I did. But the ways love were shown perhaps weren’t always how I needed to receive love. It was a chaotic household, and I didn’t always feel safe.

I learned to become the person I needed to be to survive. I took on way more than a child ever should have to. And to this day I carry a weight that were never mine.

The greatest impact trauma - the kind with big T or little t - has on us comes from the meaning we assign to those experiences.

This feels especially important, I feel, for children, who are pure and innocent, still learning how to be in the world. Young children are not yet equipped with the skills needed to make allowances for others. They don’t give the benefit of the doubt or convey deep understanding of what others are going through, which may inadvertently impact them, the child. They are egotistical by nature.

Human empathy is not a trait we are born with. It begins to develop in the toddler years, yet complex empathy emerges around the seventh year of life. By this point children are better able to take on another’s perspective.

At around the same age, a child’s nervous system reaches a key stage in development. At this point he/she has the capacity to self-regulate independently, rather than simply mirroring the Mother’s nervous system states.

I don’t believe the timing here is a coincidence. Up until this age, the Mother is the point of reference for almost everything a child needs. She is the sun around which her children orbit.

Empathy is not a necessary skill to master until this point because children have little need to deeply understand the emotions of others, except their primary caregivers. This is survival instinct. A Mother’s love is all we need. If we have her love, her protection, her innate nurturing presence, then we are safe. All else is embellishment.

When that fundamental safety is called into question, however, a child simply does not have the complex skillset required to derive any meaning to the situation, other than “I am not loved.”

Safety is love. Love is safety.

It’s as simple as that.

If we do not feel that unconditional love - through gentle touch, words, action, intention - then our blooming self worth begins to fracture. Am I not worthy of love?

This, I believe, was my own experience in childhood. I spent decades feeling unworthy. Unworthy of joy. Unworthy of peace. Unworthy of abundance. Unworthy of comfort. Unworthy of safety. Unworthy of love.

But in that moment, as I sipped my cacao I had so carefully prepared for myself, I knew in my heart that none of this was my truth. I am so completely worthy of all good things I have in my life - and all that have yet to come.

Love isn’t something that has to be earned.

It exists for each and every one of us - simply for being who we are. Even if there is not a wide circle of people around us offering or showing that love, we can feel that unconditional love from ourselves, from our children, from Source. It is ever present.

I honestly love who I am. My soul.

Perhaps I didn’t love every version of me, who made a lot of mistakes, wore a lot of masks, and didn’t really know who she was. But I look back on every ‘old me’ with such love and compassion from where I am now.

How did this evolution of loving myself occur?

I don’t think any one action can cause such a drastic change.

I once was a girl who tried to end her own life.

Now, I am a woman so deeply in love with herself and who she is in this world.

This builds up over years and years of choosing myself, nurturing myself, learning myself, holding myself, giving myself grace.

But perhaps the greatest defining moment in my self love journey is, of course, becoming a Mother.

I did not even know the true capacity to love before then. Not only that, but I observed myself in a whole new way under the lens of Motherhood. All my supposed ‘issues’ suddenly held new meaning. My shadows were lessons to be learned, memories to be re-examined, parts to be reconciled.

What parts of me were present from birth, and which developed through my experiences?

What happened to me through childhood and adolescence that conditioned me in so many ways?

Perhaps some of it even started long before I was born, passed down through generations.

As a Mother, I looked upon my own little girl and could not help but see myself as a child staring back at me. Not always, but enough to feel something shift within me.

What was I offering her that I never received myself, yet so desperately needed?

The love I feel for my children - and the love I receive back from them - has healed me in ways I never thought possible.

All those years I chased relationships, friendships and even situationships, looking for a love that would never, ever fill that hole inside me. A deep pit that I tried to pack with so many vices - boyfriends, sex, alcohol, misaligned friendships, exercise, food, achievements and accolades. All unhealthy obsessions in a pursuit to feel whole.

Even the father of my children, whom I love so deeply, could not fill that hole inside me.

Because I didn’t feel worthy of this love.

I’ve heard the saying “you can’t love someone else until you first love yourself”, and whilst I don’t agree this is entirely the truth, I do believe you can’t love others in the way you want to until you love yourself. Nor can you receive their love fully until you love yourself.

I simply accepted that this depth of love may not be part of my relationship. Not knowing where to begin changing this, I felt resigned to our fate. It was an uncomfortable truth in our partnership, that is until Motherhood ripped me apart.

Becoming a Mother stripped away every part of me, who I believed I was, the masks I wore, the labels I clung to, the memories I misremembered. I had to rebuild my sense of self, brick by beautiful brick.

Little did I know that in doing so I would fall completely and irrevocably in love with myself.

Not in a self-absorbed kind of way, in a raw, self-acceptance kind of way.

The greatest lesson throughout all of this isn’t that I was worthy all along - although I now know I am - but it is realising that all those people/things I tried to fill that hole with could never have worked. Because the answer - the person - I was looking for all along was me.

I was the answer.

I was searching for myself in every drunken kiss, misjudged relationship, calorie counted, accolade earned.

Whatever the chase, whatever the distraction, the treasure I longed for was my own love and acceptance. The real, unfiltered, authentic beautiful soul I was born with, shining her light in this world.

I found her.

I met my soul.

It felt like coming home.

I love her so completely that I can’t believe I ever spent a minute thinking I wasn’t worth that love.

I’m my own fucking soulmate.

My children, yes, they’re my people - my little hearts existing outside my body. And my partner sees and loves me for who I truly am.

But that one person my soul was destined to make her way towards and fall deeply in love with in this life, was me.

What a beautiful journey it has been coming home to myself, and I am so excited to continue allowing my true essence to shine through.

With love,

Amy x

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I have a couple of posts in the works, but in the meantime I wanted to share these words below.

This was scribbled down in my Notes app, back when my now three year old was maybe around 18 months.

Time has passed, yet the words are still so relevant, and I thought they might strike a chord with a few other mums too.

I could hoover the stairs. 
Dust the photo frames. 
Finally clear out the freezer full of expired breastmilk (apparently that’s a thing). 
Wash the floors. 
Wipe down the doors. 
Spoiler alert: I don’t.

Nor do I pick up the toys littered like confetti, which will inevitably end up right back where they rest now, in a few short minutes or hours.

I’m blessed with three little loves, who light up my world, but at least one of them needs me at any given moment, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need a breather now and again. 

I’m on call all night long. 
Lying in wait in a sort-of sleep state, ready to soothe at the first stir or yell.

I’m perpetually ‘switched on’, which, if you’ve ever experienced, is bloody exhausting in and of itself.

So, yes, I could clean the windows during the hour or two a week where little ones nap soundly and big ones sometimes go to school.

But I’d much rather sit here under a soft blanket and marvel at the way the sun shows up every sticky little handprint on the glass doors, whilst I sip something delicious and warm and read about other worlds or doodle or do whatever the hell I want.

Because I gave up asking for permission to nurture my own basic needs long, long ago.

Because I shed the shame of the ‘shoulds’ and embraced nothingness.

Stillness. 

S L O W.

We’re conditioned to believe that’s where laziness exists. No Mother just sits when there’s so much to be done.

But how will it change for our own children when they’re grown, if we do and we do, when we long to just doze, to doodle, to dance, daydream?

All respectful endeavours - even for mum.

I’ve given up pretending that I can do it all. Or perhaps I can, just not all at once.

We Mothers hold on tightly to our multitasking abilities - a badge of honour - but, truly, the real winners are the ones slowing down.

Sitting. 
Sipping. 
Savouring. 
Snoring. 
Stretching - like a cat who’s got the cream.

And when my kids find me playing or reading or drawing, I’ll tell them “well, of course, because us big kids need fun too - life’s too short to spend it constantly cleaning or worrying.”

We’ll laugh and we’ll tickle, and soon they’ll see, that Mothers who rest are the warmest places to be.

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“Burnout exists because we’ve made rest a reward rather than a right.”

- Juliet C. Obodo

Burnout has become somewhat of a buzzword on social media in recent years, especially within Motherhood communities. Mom Burnout is now a commonly used term, referring to the kind of deep physical, emotional and mental exhaustion that Mothers experience in today’s society.

Modern Motherhood has us carrying so much, that the kind of deep rest we all need simply does not seem attainable, for one reason or another.

We keep going, until we can go no more.

As a Mother of three, I have experienced my own season of burnout.

I haven’t slept a full night for almost a decade, I have spent nearly nine consecutive years breastfeeding, I have an almost non-existent village, and a history of autoimmune disease.

Burnout was in the cards for me.

Yet, I am also a Mother who questions everything.

I believe that every experience - good or bad - brings about a lesson or holds a deeper purpose for us on a soul level.

Every road we take leads us to a stop on the mission of our soul in this lifetime.

Thus, emerging from the depths of burnout, I began to wonder about the true meaning behind this depleted state for both myself and all Mothers, in fact.

The body holds so much wisdom, if we only stop to listen.

What is the soul message behind burnout, for the Mothers in conscious creation with the Universe? What is our soul here to experience?

I began pulling apart the threads, and was left analysing these questions:

Have we perhaps, in normalising burnout, accepted it as a rite of passage in modern Motherhood, and not something that can be prevented with appropriate care?

If we no longer have the ‘village’ of women raising children together, how can we better equip ourselves in the fight against the inevitable burnout?

And in a world that has moved away from honouring Motherhood as the spiritual practice that it is, what spiritual message is burnout attempting to offer us?

In this series of articles, I would like to explore the answers to these questions, considering, first of all, how we view burnout in present day society.

This is not another quick-fix, click-bait Burnout Recovery strategy…

What I hope to offer is an alternative way of thinking about burnout as a conscious Mother, encouraging us all to begin questioning yet another widely accepted half-truth of our world.

It’s time to dismantle what we know about maternal burnout.

This is the new paradigm.

Let’s begin by understanding: what actually is burnout?

If you have ever experienced burnout, you will know that it impairs both your body and mind, quietly creeping in like a parasite to, pretty much, take over your entire life.

It was first used in a professional capacity,

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Waulking (Scottish Gaelic: luadh) - women weaving, finishing tweed cloth in community together while singing.

This year’s International Women’s Day theme should have sung to me.

It should have been the whisper of inspiration I needed to effortlessly craft a beautiful post about women coming together in my community.

Why?

Because I am Scottish.

One of my earliest memories is learning a Gaelic song in school about porridge - I can still remember the words now.

I am proud to be Scottish. We are a loud, resilient, fiery bunch. Always up for a laugh.

But waulking didn’t trigger precious memories for me.

Instead, it left me thinking of the message that I do weave through all of my work: we no longer live the way that we are designed to.

Typically, women do not come together to create, to nurture our collective wellbeing, to honour ancient traditions.

This is no longer the norm in our run of the mill town, here on the East coast of Scotland, and I know this echoes true for the majority of Western societies today.

Long ago, women gathering to share knowledge, offer healing or practice rituals, was part of every day life.

Until it was considered dangerous.

This is witchcraft, they said.

The rise of patriarchy put out the flames of the wise women.

Women coming together was a threat to male-dominated power.

With industrialisation leading to further disconnection, our wisdom-sharing dwindled further.

Gathering as women was no longer part of every day life, but perhaps considered a bit taboo.

And so began the witch wound we all subconsciously carry as women - especially us Scots.

Today, many of us are reclaiming sacred spaces for women, participating in rituals and co-creation.

However, it is still not considered normal.

By this, I mean, it is not embedded into everyday society as it should be (and once was).

Our days and weeks are not crafted to weave time spent in ceremony, in creation, in deep connection with our sisters. Instead, we live life in a perpetual state of rushing, promising to catch up with a girlfriend in three and a half months time - if the stars align.

Schools don’t teach our children about the power of connection with other females, either. Instead, from an early age girls subconsciously feel pitted against each other. Who is prettier, thinner, sweeter?

Because females who fight amongst each other are not a threat to world order.

Wisdom is not passed down through generations of women in the way it was long ago. My Granny didn’t tell my Mother she could sit in a circle with a group of women, light a candle and share the load. And my Mother didn’t pass this onto me. She didn’t tell me because she didn’t know.

This is centuries of conditioning in the making.

Those coming together in Circle have found their way there in search of a safe space of their own.

It is no longer a birthright.

We are not born into communities with women - or even children - at the heart.

This is the patriarchy, where they still try to keep women small. Quiet. Contained.

That is why using our voice on days like today (more like every day) to spread the word that there is another way of living, is vitally important.

When we come together we reap countless benefits:

• We feel seen and heard in ways only women understand. This is so validating.

• We are more creative together, inspired by each other’s unique presence and gifts.

• We have the confidence to be our authentic selves in these safe, supportive spaces.

• We nurture our mental wellbeing. Being in community with women reduces feelings of isolation. That loneliness we face as Mothers raising young children does not have to be the norm.

• We even improve our physical health. Meaningful connection with other women reduces cortisol levels, anxiety and risk of chronic illness.

The more we highlight the gifts of female community, the more opportunities we have to empower women - and the next generation.

Women have gathered for centuries, because they knew how powerful coming together could be. The knowledge of the magic of Circle was passed down through generations. It was inherited wisdom.

Now, we must make this common knowledge again.

If every women knew how beautiful coming together with other women could be, the magic she could create, the world truly would be a better place.

Let our words be the messenger, carrying this lost wisdom forward - for us and the generations to come.

Whisper to your sisters.

Craft stories for your children.

Shout from your platforms.

Scribble in your journals and pass a note along.

Let it be known: there is deep healing, power and ancient magic to be found in gathering as females.

This is my legacy.

I will get the word out.

Thank you to , , , , and for the theme for International Women’s Day this year. Lots of love to you all - and all the women on this platform using our voices for change.

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Meanwhile, my children grow like wildflowers. I cannot keep up.

I am struggling with the reality that my first baby is not a baby anymore. Not even close, actually. My eldest daughter is now a grand eight and a half years old. I have blinked and missed so much, it seems.

Gone is the fragile babe who could only sleep curled on my chest like a question mark. The fussy infant whose cries awakened parts of my soul I had lost along the way. The fiery toddler, pushing boundaries to make it known her little body was indeed separate from my own.

In their place remains a thoughtful, attentive, compassionate and creative young girl, whom I am unbelievably proud to know and love.

I observe who she has grown into - and is still becoming - and quietly wonder if any part of her was shaped by my presence, my words, my actions. Or if she is who she is, regardless of who I am and what I get right or wrong.

This is the age old debate, right? Nature vs nurture.

I can see the argument for both sides of the coin.

When I think back to that naive new Mother I was, I cannot accept that I had a say in who she would be. With all the mistakes I have made, the lessons I have been forced to learn, and the healing I have had to undergo, it seems unbelievable that she would turn out so beautifully.

Or have I left a stain in ways that are not yet visible to the eye?

I am often reminded of this poem by Philip Larkin, in which he states that all parents fuck up their kids in some way, whether we mean to or not.

This Be The Verse

BY PHILIP LARKIN

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

In some ways, I believe there is truth in this. The general experience of most human beings is that we pass on our unresolved shit to our children. We don’t want to, but we do.

But his parting words do not ring true for me.

Avoiding having children to dodge carrying forward our own misery is like staying out of the sun in case you get sunburned. Yes, it could hurt if we’re not careful, but it also grows beauty in unparalleled ways.

Just as nothing compares to that feeling of the warm sun on bare skin, nothing will come close to the joy of bringing new life into this world - even at the risk of transferring a little of our own darkness to our children.

Most of us are inherently good. We do our best to conceal the darkest parts of ourselves from the little lights of our lives. And many of us even work to brighten those shadows, by confronting them amidst the chaos of Motherhood, ensuring they never become the burdens of our children.

Breaking cycles of generations is no easy feat. Yet faced with the prospect of witnessing negative patterns play out in our own children, we have no choice but to do the hard thing, over and over again.

That might look like reparenting ourselves, creating boundaries, facing unresolved traumas, grieving, learning how to feel safe in our own bodies. The list goes on. But, as conscious Mothers, we are giving our children whatever it is we did not have growing up.

This is our legacy.

I often think how differently my experience of Motherhood would have been had I been older, wiser, done more of that deep inner healing work to break cycles I was not even aware of yet at the tender age of 25.

But that was not meant to be my journey. Motherhood was the portal. I had to walk this threshold exactly when and how I did in order to take this path of profound transformation - for myself and my entire lineage.

And so it is.

Returning to that question, then: is my daughter who she is because of my influence or despite of me?

Did I help shape her in some way, or would she always have been as she is, regardless of what we went through in those early years of her life?

Is a soul’s essence predetermined before she meets the Earth plane?

Honestly, I don’t have a definitive answer, and I think I will contemplate this forever. However, one thing I am sure of is that she would not be who she is if I hadn’t fully embraced the path Motherhood sent me on.

Becoming a Mother opened me up to my intuition. Her calls were like little breadcrumbs to a life I did not know existed before. I could choose to follow them and see where it led, or I could simply ignore them, and stick to the path everyone else around me was on.

Walking the road less travelled is not straight forward, which I discussed in this article below, back in January. In fact, it has led me down many dark and painful roads.

But it has also set me free.

Motherhood offered me the freedom to be my authentic self. To choose a way of living that feels innately right.

I like to think that this was exactly what my children needed too. Those little souls chose me because of this journey we are facing together. Perhaps they are exactly who I needed in my life too, so that I could fully experience true unconditional love. To learn how to love and accept myself.

I am not still that naive girl I was in the early days of Motherhood. I do not think my children are here simply to teach me. Our children are not born to heal us. They are each on a beautiful journey of their own, with unique soul contracts to fulfil.

Yet becoming a Mother was the catalyst for change that I sorely needed.

My undoing.

My rebirth.

My reclamation.

My daughter was not born to heal me. But taking on the role of her Mother did just that. For this, I will forever be grateful, and understand that God truly gives us all that we need here on Earth, when we are open to receive.

My daughter. My blessing. My heart.

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My social media presence has been almost non-existent this month. I logged out of all my apps (as I often do when I feel my old pal anxiety creeping in). At first, I was obsessively clicking on the damn icons every time I opened my phone to read an email from the school, check the weather forecast or pay a bill.

It was like a parasite had infiltrated my brain and led me there every single time without my permission. I did not consciously think: “I wonder what’s going down on Instagram right now.”

Not once.

Yet I found myself continuously creeping there, an obsessive voyeur desperate to get a sniff at the perfectly curated life of others I barely know. What utter insanity.

I would be jolted back into my own body as my phone prompted for a password.

Oh, that’s right… I logged out.

My avoidance of social media right now is not entirely unrelated to the sheer depravity being exposed in the Epstein files at the moment.

It’s one of those damned if you do, damned if you don’t situations for me. If I learn all there is to know about these monsters, and consume every piece of content out there right now, I will end up traumatised. Anxious. Extremely low in mood.

However, there is also a part of me that believes we all need to see it, in order to truly understand how vile this world can be. Our anger can be the force of change.

But I am also a Mother - the heart of my home.

My energy, my capacity to deal with what I am exposed to every day, directly impacts the wellbeing of my family.

I am the gatekeeper.

When I am falling apart at the seams, I let in a tidal wave of negative energy, ultimately putting the wellbeing of my children at risk.

Their safety and wellbeing are above all.

The irony is not lost on me that I have chosen to look away from other children who have not been kept safe or well, in an attempt to protect my own family’s peace. It is a hard pill to swallow.

I have tried to stay informed. Tried to stoke that fire of fury that can call upon retribution.

All that happens is I drown in my emotions.

Rage, fear, disbelief, horror, disgust, grief. Will I ever be able to keep looking without succumbing to the pain of others? Honestly, I don’t know. An empath, some may call it. Maybe even a touch of that neurodivergent justice sensitivity thrown in there too.

But what I am certain of is that I am not the kind of Mother I want (nor need) to be when I am drowning in this collective pain.

Thus, I have been choosing to avoid some of the chaos online. And, inadvertedly, I have taken a temporary step back from Substack too. It has allowed a little more softness to come back into my life.

I have been devouring books for fun, delving into new genres and feeling a real schoolgirl excitement for reading again.

I have connected more with my children, without the distractions of notifications or moments of mindless scrolling when I think they aren’t watching.

I have shared more of myself in real life with others, opening up to friends and could-be friends like a flower in bloom.

Life has a funny way of giving us exactly what we need, when we are open to receive. Vibrating at the right frequency, as they say.

I used to fear being cut off from the media. I believed a lack of online presence meant I was being ignorant to the events of the world, shutting myself off from the really important stuff I needed to know in life. I couldn't isolate myself like that - or so I thought.

I let in all the noise, the chaos, every painful truth that was thrown my way. This over-exposure hardened me. It left a bitterness that bled into my precious family life.

Taking a step back is liberating. It is soothing. Softer.

We could all use a little softening.

So, this post is really to say I am still here. Just a little softer around the edges, despite the harshness of this world. And I’d like to leave you with a poem I wrote a while back on this very concept: being soft.

I hope it brings a little more tenderness into your life too^.

Soft

When did we learn

That soft is undesirable

Unfavourable

Both inadequate yet all too much?

When soft is but a whisp of curls

Brushed lovingly before bed

Soft is the silk of newborn skin

Pink from the womb

Soft are a Mother’s breasts

Nurturing new life

On delicate bedsheets

Late into the night

Soft is a tender moment

Between two newly crowned parents

The kindness of others

When a village is needed

Soft is the miraculous flesh

Where life itself grew

A body loosened with love

And holy creation

Soft are the lashes

Framing curious eyes

Whispered kisses whilst they sleep

On the purest of cheeks

Soft are doughy little arms

Wrapping tightly in embrace

Gentle breaths in a treasured chest

A dainty hand tucked in mine

Soft are quiet lullabies

Stories shared under blanket clouds

The day melting away between us

A flowing and slowing of time

Soft is the morning light

Casting a glow across well played floorboards

A home filled with love and warmth

Sweet voices sharing sibling’s secrets

Soft is my heart

In this season of life

Edges smoothed, cracks dulled

A weariness gratefully soothed

Motherhood has softened me

It should not to be feared

A soft life is forgiving

Meant for me all along.

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I was always a good girl - a perfectionist, even. It was easy to assume I would make all the right choices in Motherhood, just as I had made the right choices my whole life.

What I could not have predicted, however, was that the right choices came from a place within me… Not from what the books described, nor what the professionals mapped out for me in my vulnerable postpartum state, nor what the women around me suggested.

I found myself moving away from the accepted norms of my family and the community I grew up in, and forging a new path for my own children.

I did not imagine I would be like one of those wild Mothers. Crunchy, some might say. Living in a more primal, basic way.

You know the ones: with babies born by the bedside, then draped over their bodies for years - a second skin.

The women whose children share her bed, suckling from the breast far longer than anyone ever suspects.

They have their hair unbound like mermaids, and skin make-up free, clothes worn practically and made from fabrics consciously chosen.

For everything in their lives is a conscious choice.

Their arms are taught with lean muscle from lifting children down from trees, into swings and up onto hips, as they cook hearty meals from scratch with one hand.

This Mother could never be me, and here is why:

• I had never even seen a mum babywearing. Why carry the baby when that’s what prams were designed for?

• Bedsharing was other. It wasn’t here and now in our modern, polished society. It existed in communities wearing loincloths and sitting round fires. Why would we sleep in the same bed when we can afford all these pristinely painted bedrooms for our babies?

• I viewed breastfeeding beyond the newborn stage as completely unnecessary - and a bit cringe, right?

• Birthing at home was reckless. Who do these women think they are? Pregnant women don’t know better than healthcare professionals. We should give birth in hospitals so we know we are safe.

I share all of this with an apology.

I am deeply sorry for my naivety. Perhaps I could even be described as judgmental. But how could I have known? You only know what you know, sadly… and Motherhood was about to be my greatest teacher.

She had yet to open my eyes.

Oh, how she forced me to see it all.

I believed myself to be knowledgeable before having children. Educated, even. I’ve spent practically my whole life in education and excelled at it.

I collected accolades throughout my schooling (remember that perfectionism I mentioned earlier?). I won a scholarship to study Psychology at one of the most prestigious Universities in the UK (University of St. Andrews, in case you’re wondering). I went on to Edinburgh University to study at Postgraduate level and qualified as a Primary School Teacher, then spent ten years in teaching.

Believe me when I say, nothing I learned throughout all of this has been as profound as the lessons offered in Motherhood.

No teacher, nor mentor has ever been as wise as my children.

No experience has been so rich in learning opportunities as being a Mother.

Every step of the way this journey teaches me so much: about myself, my family lineage, what it means to raise children in today’s society, and about the world in general.

I am truly sorry for what I did not - could not - yet know.

But, here I am, becoming who I was always meant to be.

• I did not expect to feed my children from the breast beyond infancy. I discovered a fierce stubbornness when it came to continuing past those first precious few weeks (which may have, in the beginning, been that good old perfectionism sneaking in - see the article below from back in July, where I explore this in more detail). I have now been breastfeeding for eight and a half years. No one is more surprised than me.

• I did not expect to share a bed with my babies for nearly a decade of my life. I bought the fancy cot, I decorated the nursery, I tried all the self-soothing bullshit, but, ultimately, the only choice that felt innately right was sleeping snuggled up with my babies in our family bed. (And, as Elena Bridgers points out in her article here,

  there is a biological reason for this. “Putting babies to sleep alone in a crib is truly one of the weirdest things we do in Western society, from an anthropological and evolutionary perspective.”) One day I’ll wish for them to reach for me in the night and let me hold them as they drift off. No one could ever convince me this is wrong now.

• I did not expect to give birth in my livingroom - and once in the bathroom! This is where COVID pandemic, surprisingly, did me a favour… In 2020, some women were birthing without their partners. There was no way on Earth I was doing that without my baby’s Father with me. So we decided to make it happen in the one place they couldn’t police us at that time: our own home. And it was magical.✨

• I did not expect to move away from traditional schooling and pursue methods of home education that suit our family. This one may be the most surprising, given that I am a teacher!

• I did not expect to turn to natural healing methods for myself and my family in times of illness. I was unwell a lot growing up and into early andulthood, and did not think twice about visiting the Dr for a prescription. Somewhere along this journey I began to question if this, too, was the best choice for my children’s health (and my own). Thus began the deep dive into natural healing and even gaining qualifications in Holistic Health and Nutrition Coaching.

• Above all, I did not expect becoming a Mother to change who I was and what I believed in so profoundly. Everything I believed to be true about my identity, my capabilities, my values, had been called into question.

The real truth, however, is that Motherhood did not simply change me. It brought me home. This is exactly who I was always supposed to become.

The parts of me I lost in those early years of Motherhood are not mourned. I do not miss them.

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They were the masks I wore to belong in a society I believed I wanted to be part of. They were the behaviours I learned to protect myself in a world that never felt safe. They were the boxes I fit into - by my own admission or had been squeezed into somewhere along the way by my childhood, experiences or society.

Jane Clapp writes that “we might need to stop idealizing BELONGING if it means sacrificing our values, our hearts and our inner authority.”

I could not agree more.

Losing these parts of the self (and I am sure there will be much more to shed across my lifetime) has allowed me to reclaim who I really am, what I ultimately value, and what is true in my heart.

I have met my soul again.

Motherhood gave me that opportunity. I could have gone a lifetime without knowing her. What a gift.

What means even more to me, however, is how this impacts my children. Learning to trust my intuition as a Mother and reconnect with my authentic self paves the way for my children to do the same.

Perhaps they won’t have to unlearn quite so much as I did, but will know and trust their inner truth from the beginning.

Perhaps they won’t feel compelled to wear those masks, but will possess a confidence in who they are at the soul level.

Perhaps they won’t be squeezed into those boxes that keep them small, because they will know deep down that the magic they possess cannot be contained.

I love that my own struggles have led me to this place, so that I may be the change for them. They have their own paths to take, but I hope that they always stay true to who they are.

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I’d love to say I haven’t posted a piece because I took some time off to rest, but the truth is it has simply been ridiculously busy.

I know Winter is a time for doing less. Slowing down. Retreating. Recuperation.

I know this.

Yet I can’t seem to fully get off the hamster wheel. There are so many events, activities, gifts to buy (and wrap!), food to order. On and on it goes.

I have learned to hold my own boundaries and say no when I am too exhausted for gatherings with family or friends, but I can’t quite seem to squash any of the festive fun with my children. I want them to do it all. I long to do less but I worry that my children will miss out on some of the magic.

Will Christmas simply cease to exist in our home if I take my foot off the pedal? Does every Mother experience both the joy and the burden of the holidays?

There are so many experiences that I want to have with them, but perhaps I don’t quite have the capacity for it all.

The guilt of this truth weighs heavy on me.

Yet when I sit with it, allow it to take root within me, I know there is a silver lining to be found.

For the greatest memories I have with my children are not the ones I paid for. I didn’t have pre-book months in advance. Special outfits were not planned and purchased. There are no staged photos for evidence.

My favourite moments are the ones when time seems to flicker and stretch, like an elastic band pulled taught. It stills, laying itself out flat before us in offering.

It is a gift. The present.

These beloved minutes are not filled with unchecked excitement or deep burning passion, as I once thought a life well-lived should be soaked in.

They are the in-betweens… Nothing and something all at once.

Some day between Christmas and New Year, when my younger children cuddle in close to Daddy on a couch that has seen better days, cushions stained in memories of grubby hands and bouncy feet. They eagerly await every last word as he reads from a cherished book. The story and their accompanying tit-bits become the background music of this perfectly normal morning at home.

My eldest lounges nearby, in brand new pyjamas that are still a little too loose round the waist. She pores pure imagination on the white page in front of her, some of which she shares freely and some she holds a little closer to her chest these days. She pads along the floor and tucks her elongated body in beside mine under my blanket, stealing a spot often reserved by her younger siblings. I wrap an arm around her, unruly curls tickling at my neck, and call her home to me.

Winter sun streams through smudged glass, casting a golden glow across the toy-scattered room. Remnants of earlier fun.

I sip from a warm mug and breathe in the smell of spiced milk, hoping all my senses will commit this morning to memory forever.

Simple beauty in a family home filled with love. Nothing to write about, and yet it is all I long to put into words.

A life well-lived, indeed.

Perhaps next year I’ll recall such mornings when I feel sucked in by the festivities, remembering that the true Christmas magic exists in moments like this… Ordinary. Beautiful. Priceless.

Did you have a similarly beautiful and chaotic Christmas? Or have you managed to get the balance just right?

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- Brene Brown

I wanted to share this quote I have been considering recently. This is a book I’ve been dipping in and out of for years, always receiving wisdom I need at that time. Brene Brown’s work on shame resonates with me so much. Shame is, in fact, one of the components of what she describes as a ‘scarcity culture’ in the book Daring Greatly (the other two being comparison and disengagement).

Never is there a time we are called to dare greatly more than in Motherhood.

Mothers are required to make choices for our children even before conception. Considered, well researched, intuitive choices. Following your intuition instead of blindly following the path taken by others before you requires real courage and grit. It is not easy to walk the path less travelled, particularly if it is met with criticism, disdain or being downright ostracised.

Human beings are wired for connection.

Being a member of a wider group is not only desirable but necessary for our survival. If we make choices that inadvertently nudge us towards becoming an outsider within the group, we may feel fear or panic start to bubble up. If I no longer fit here, is my very survival at threat?

This can be the experience of new Mothers, following what feels true for our own growing family. It can be terrifying going against the grain. We may no longer fit within the family we grew up in, within our group of friends or the wider community.

Brown’s climate of scarcity suggests we must only accept what experiences are offered to us, not striving for more or something different, particularly if it threatens our membership within the group we believe we need to belong to survive.

But that scarcity culture is shattered when we feel that fear and forge our own path anyway.

Some of us as Mothers begin questioning these societal norms as soon as we start to grow new life within the womb, rejecting scarcity in favour of a culture of authenticity.   A culture of integrity. A culture of self trust. A culture of honouring ancient wisdom. This is what we strive for when we make such considered choices, in any case.

Forging this new path is a vital part of our story, our soul’s journey on Earth in this lifetime, and the lives of generations to come as a result of our own bravery.

For it is brave to stand up against what you are told everyone else around you has always done. Mothers are fertile with fierce courage. Lionesses protecting our cubs.

We start asking questions.

Taking notes.

Making connections.

Spotting patterns.

Doing our due diligence.

What is fascinating to note in this narrative is that the area of the brain responsible for detecting patterns is actually larger in women; more active. I don’t think this is a coincidence. Nothing about God’s design of man and woman is down to chance.

Women are leading the way for our families. Pattern recognition is one of many skills God gifted woman with, which she can choose (for He of course granted us free will) to utilise in cultivating the most nurturing, safe and loving environment for our children.

We can use such tools to assess repeated behaviours or actions and their subsequent consequences, and use this analysis to make inferences about how this applies to our own family. If x causes y for most people, can I confidently make that choice in good faith for my own children, knowing what the impact could be?

Women pushing back against the pressures of ‘normal’ culture in this way by fighting for what we believe is best for our children is not even always a conscious decision, but an act of deep intuitive knowing.

We’ve all heard the phrase ‘Mother knows best.’ This is not just a cute quip. It is rooted in generations of women who have honoured those gut feelings about their children.

We all have them.

A strong knowing that you cannot explain but comes from somewhere deep within.

This is God given.

A babe who grew as a part of your own body for nine months, does not suddenly become detached because he or she is now Earth-side. These little souls are extensions of us. This does not end after the fourth trimester either. Postpartum is forever. We remain spiritually and emotionally connected with our children, even as they physically grow in distance from us.

Trusting that voice within is courageous as a Mother, and it completely rejects those components of a scarcity society Brown discusses.

1. Comparison

We do not compare ourselves to other mums when we make the choice to do what we believe is fundamentally right for our own family. We stay in our own lane and focus on our own little love bubble.

When you are so committed to following your gut and living in your truth for your family, the choices or lives of others have no bearing on that. We live in celebration of our own individuality, and everyone doing what feels innately right for them and their own family. There is a level of respect for any and all women living their own truth - whatever that may be.

2. Disengagement

The depth of comprehension, questioning and analysis required to make informed decisions for our children requires real engagement. Engagement with social issues, politics, research, understanding of health and wellbeing practices. The list goes on.

We are not switched off and allowing life to simply happen around us. Following your intuition requires being an active participant in your life and that of your children. Quietly following the norm is passive, disengaged with what is actually happening beyond the surface level, and how this could affect our children.

3. Shame

Have you ever had a twinge of intuition and you pushed it deep back down inside, only later to recognise you perhaps made the wrong choice and should have followed your gut? Sometimes, in the midst of that sits shame.

Shame that you don’t trust yourself enough to listen to your own inner voice.

Shame that you don’t feel brave enough to make the choices you wish you could for your family.

But there’s no shame in following your truth. Daring to follow the calls of your inner knowing, whether they lead you to where you hoped or not, does not leave you feeling ashamed.

Perhaps we feel pride in our strong will and confidence.

Perhaps we feel gratitude that we were able to listen to those whispers of the soul and lead our family forward.

But there is no room at the table for shame when we dare to follow our hearts as Mothers.

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If I can speak honestly right now, I will admit that I have not always listened to my intuition as a Mother. That gut feeling came calling and, sadly, I listened to the voices of others above my own. Those early days of Motherhood were a very steep learning curve for me and there are choices I made that I must live with. They do not sit easy.

However, I am so very thankful I can speak now with an open heart and say that I completely trust myself to follow the right path for my children.

Not every day will be perfect as a Mother - there’s no such thing - but I know that following that inner knowing leads us down our true path, bumps and all.

My intuition guides our family. It did take time to build that muscle of self trust, and have the confidence to go against the grain, but doing so has brought our family great abundance in so many ways.

More so, it has allowed me to show up for my children in ways no one did for me in my own childhood. Perhaps by fully trusting our inner voice we are advocating for ourselves too. The version of ourselves that needed someone to make informed decisions and push back against the culture to fight for what is right for us. Little me feels safe knowing that I am fighting her corner now too.

Daring greatly is not the easy choice. But, ultimately, it feels like the right one to break cycles of generations and offer my children the most nurturing start in life.

I’ll keep being brave - for them.

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Burning my identity to the ground and birthing myself anew is not a novel concept for me.

Death and rebirth is a cycle I am all to familiar with.

Yet something I do find difficult to wrap my head around is packaging who I am up neatly into a box to give to others.

People are made up of titles. The way we introduce ourselves in new spaces, to new faces, especially as women, seems to hold a lot of weight. We all do it, and we often spend a lot of time considering what titles to offer up.

Mother. Sister. Wife. Friend. Teacher. Writer. Therapist. Dancer. Homemaker.

Some titles are given to us: a birthright. We are all born daughters, for example. Some titles we collect along the way, through our experiences, education and interests.

Why do we collect titles and offer them up to people like a welcome gift, I wonder?

Perhaps it helps us feel more like we belong? I identify as an Artist, so if I share this part of myself with others I can be member of the collective group of Artists.

Community and belonging are fundamental human needs, after all.

Or perhaps this is an attempt at allowing others to understand us on a deeper level. To quickly and succinctly know what we do, where we go, how we spend our time, our likes and dislikes. As if sharing these parts of ourselves can adequately paint a picture of who we truly are at the core.

We offer titles and expect others to fit those parts together like a jigsaw, creating a whole, and making a meaning of it all.

My problem with this is that a jigsaw puzzle has edges. It ends and it begins. It usually conforms to a geometric shape. I do not.

Branding ourselves with a collection of titles in this way, I feel, puts us neatly into boxes. Each box holds its own set of rules, of which I am not sure I can commit to following at all times. Isn’t that the nature of being human, that we are constantly evolving and changing?

Especially women, who ebb and flow with the tides - how can we be expected to meet these very specific requirements at all times?

It seems a little unreasonable to me.

Alongside rules as part of these communities, there exists a set of credentials we must meet to gain membership to given boxes. Sometimes these can feel like impossible standards.

If I call myself a Writer, should I hold some kind of writing qualification? If I profess my love of reading, is it enough that I am always slowly but surely reading some kind of book, but have not studied any of the greatest novels of our time? How can I claim to be a reader if I have not devoured Gatsby or Jane Eyre from cover to cover?

Even if I do achieve the given requirements that grant me permission to wear this title like a badge, I still often do not feel like I belong there. Imposter syndrome has such a firm grip that, with all the qualifications in the world, these titles will remain unfitting.

Then there are the titles we may hold unwillingly. Think “oh she’s such a Good Girl” or perhaps even experiences that have been traumatic in some way have granted us titles we never wanted or asked for. Those are the kind of boxes I have subconsciously spent a lifetime attempting to break from, and now consciously choose to reject.

So, no, I longer wish to give my titles to strangers, friends and the wider world, parts of myself carved up in sacrificial offering.

Understand me, accept me, see me.

Perhaps I simply need to give my evolution some grace. Maybe the titles I once held no longer apply, and that is OK. I am a qualified Primary School Teacher, but my values, particularly since becoming a Mother, have changed so dramatically that I no longer can relate to all that being a teacher holds. Not everything fits anymore and I am accepting of that.

How I would prefer to tell others of who I am right now, then, is by sharing the one element that is missing with every title we can claim.

The one part of me that matters more than any name or group I belong to: how I feel.

For I can tell you I’m a Mother, a daughter, a poet, but none of these names tell you the one thing you truly long to know: how it feels to wear these badges, what emotions are stirred in me when I take on these roles.

Given the ever-changing nature of how we feel, of course, means these offerings will be different with the changing of time and place. You will almost always be a Wife, a Singer, a Baker, but the complexity of our feelings will rarely be identical twice.

I think this makes for a much more interesting and human way of introducing ourselves, don’t you? Vulnerable, yes, but honest. More relatable than you telling me you’re a Psychologist, Long-Distance Runner or a part-time Novelist.

Thus, it is time for a reintroduction…

Today and every day I am Amy.

Yet in this moment I am also quietly grieving. Grieving the loss of a loved one, grieving who I thought I would be, grieving the completely innocent childhood I never got to have.

But my grief juxtaposes my joy.

As I write here now, my two year old plays happily with her puzzle, in her hand-me-down Frozen pyjamas. She shouts over to me that she’s “missing a piece” - a phrase she picked up from her elder siblings and makes me smile with my whole face, forgetting for a second that I am grieving right now.

Light rain falls outside and in the quiet moments of our messy, lived-in open plan family area, I can hear the soothing sound of water as it gently meets the Earth.

There is joy in Motherhood here in this moment, and sweet contentment.

For I have no where to rush off to right now. I accept the title of Mother, yes (always), but right now I am a content Mother. A resting Mother. A wearing pyjamas, a soft blanket and listening to the rain at 11am on a random Wednesday morning Mother.

Simply put, I identify more with my emotions, shifting and growing across days and weeks and months, than I do the boxes I have been squeezed into for far too long.

I am part of nature, not a cog in a machine with moving parts that all know their place.

Nature evolves, she retreats, she shows up without apology. Nature does not stay in her lane, she continues to forge her path, regardless of what is in her way. No walls can hold her back. A force.

And I, too, am a force, guided by the tide of my emotions, and no box will ever contain me again.

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More than that, it was one of the most challenging months of my life, actually.

Grief has rendered me speechless, the words unable to form for the first time in what feels like forever. Yet, here I am, with the house to myself, the sound of Autumn leaves blowing in the breeze outside, the warm afternoon sun kissing my skin, and a laptop open, with words gently calling to be written.

I am slowly coming back to my body, with my writing as my guide.

Inspiration sparked after reading a recent SoulStack prompt by : Advice. When I sat quietly with this word, letting memories and emotions emerge from the darkness, I realised there is, in fact, so much I have to say.

As is the way here in A Healing Motherhood, I view this prompt through my lens as a Mother…

There is always an abundance of advice for new mums, whether we asked for it or not.

I crafted my thoughts into the poem below, which feels like a bit of a vulnerable share, if I’m honest. Poetry often stays hidden in the pages of journals by my bedside, but my recent experiences have shown me that life truly is too short. Time to get it all out.

I should say this does come with a bit of a trigger warning as it skirts around some birth trauma from my first baby, and may bring up some uncomfortable feelings if you have had similar experiences. I know birth can be one of those topics that is very fragile.

Sending love to all the mamas who have their own wounds.

Advice for the new Mother

Unwanted words bloom on fast lips
Poisoned apples that rot and fester
Gifted to unsuspecting victims
Growing new life of their own

I did not ask for stories with unhappy endings
Cautionary tales and stark warnings
Wrapped up like well wishes in pretty pink paper
A gift for the new Mother

As I dance between worlds 
My vulnerability shines like moonlight on water
It calls upon wise women of my land 
To wrap me in blankets of quiet confidence

But those women had their voices silenced
She did not show up on my expactant doorstep 
Only the bleak, the fearful, the downright dangerous
Came like a flood to sweep me down too

They never stopped to ask 
Where the poisoned apples grew
Was birth always this way?
Or did they do this to us too?

It was only after, I realised she did hear my call
The wise woman I summoned as my guide 
Was neither Matriarch or Crone
But the whispers that appeared like a ghost in my mind

I passed across the threshold from one life to the next 
Baby in arms, and a new voice inside my head
Intuition gifted by a God I had not met 
Until Motherhood birthed me anew

There was no comfort blanket 
Passed down through generations
Only a resurrected inner knowing
She is my wise woman - the advice I wished I had. 

If you enjoyed these words, please do leave a comment or share to your Notes.

Lots of love❤️

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This week’s musings detail the journey of uncovering a lifelong habit of self-regulating my anxiety that was no longer serving me - or my children.

Anxiety is an old friend of mine; one I could talk about at length, but will save for another day. It took me a long time to connect the dots between anxiety and my apparent need for constant noise and companionship.

For as long as I can remember, I disliked my own company. I didn’t know this feeling to be anxiety as a little girl. I simply felt panic rising in my chest when the silence closed in around me. I could not sit at peace alone in the quiet.

I craved attention, company, validation.

As a child, I followed my parents around, directly requesting that they “talk to me”, for fear of what the silence might bring. I can still hear my little voice, pleading with them. The memory weighs me down, even now.

I have always been a deep thinker. Incredibly sensitive. Too much so, I was told. This made the time alone with only my thoughts feel very heavy. I did grow anxious, but also depressed and fearful. I suffered vivid, terrifying nightmares, becoming too scared to even sleep on my own.

Looking back, I did engage in solo pursuits growing up, like writing poetry and stories, reading or drawing. However, I never strayed too far from my family, choosing to sit near my Mum, Dad or brother over actually being alone. Or I played lots of loud music upstairs in my room whilst I penned angst-ridden poems. Lots of background noise to drown out the chaos inside my head.

Even reading was an escape from the confines of my own mind, as I devoured books with an insatiable hunger. Reading replaced the reality I was running away from with fantasy worlds and storylines.

I could be someone else in my book worlds. I could free myself.

It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I recognised this habit of trying to escape. As a young Mother tending to my children, I would walk into a room and switch on the radio, a playlist, a podcast. The number of books I read was directly correlated with my mental state. I soothed myself with this noise because I was so terrified of sitting with my own thoughts.

When I began to learn more about the impact of my mental wellbeing on the developing nervous systems of my small children, I started to see this behaviour in a new light. Motherhood, once again, was the mirror I needed to truly see myself.

Recognising this pattern allowed me to consider what message I was sending my children if this continued. If I could not sit with my own thoughts or be in my own company, would they feel safe in their own bodies?

Did I really want my children to chase these escapes (some of which were far less wholesome than reading, let me tell you - another future post perhaps), quieting their own inner voice, ideas and thoughts?

My babies, whose every musing on life and the world is utterly precious to me…

I long to teach them the value of trusting their intuition…

Of feeling safe to be their authentic selves…

Using quiet moments to check in with their innate knowing, get bored and channel their beautiful creativity.

I knew I had to get comfortable sitting in the discomfort of quiet, if not for my own wellbeing but to lead by example for my children. It was foreign land.

So many times I stood at the kitchen worktop as the children played happily nearby, and reached out for the button on the radio or scrolled for the perfect mind-numbing playlist. I had to remind myself it was for the highest good of myself and my children to ride those silent, uncomfortable waves. Chop veg with only the charming background noise of my children’s laughter - or bickering. Let what comes through in the quiet corners of my mind make itself known.

Now, I move through the rhythms of family life mostly in silence. I fold laundry without a podcast on - the ideas of someone else no longer clouding my own. I cook dinner without loud music rattling inside my anxious mind every evening.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times I love to dance around to music or enjoy listening to a podcast on a long drive, but choosing to focus on one singular task at a time welcomes a state of calm for me. Perhaps I have had to fight against society’s portrayal of the Supermum: forever spinning countless plates; the Queen of multitasking. I can be her. But I have found the quiet concentration on one given task at a time to be much more soothing.

Less really does mean more for me.

For doing less and inviting silence into my life, perhaps for the first time, has allowed that wise little whisper in the back of my mind to grow louder and louder.

I am no longer scared of what she has to say.

I offer myself the chance to actually hear my intuition. Let ideas and creative downloads bloom. I do not fear the darkness that waits in the silence. I invited her in a long time ago. She did not eat me whole, as I suspected, but offered me an opportunity: to alchemise my pain into beauty.

Time alone now is a rare precious gem, with the busyness of life with three young children. The irony is not lost on me that I no longer fear sitting with myself, but long for more time to reflect and welcome creative thoughts and ideas… yet it is the very thing I cannot have.

That is why learning how to create micromoments of peace for myself throughout my day has been my lifeline in Motherhood.

Most mornings I wake with my cosleeping toddler. She asks for milk, half-wakened cuddles and drifts off for another half an hour or so. As I hold her against my warm body, I keep my own eyes gently closed, meditating, connecting with my breath and my guides, and asking for guidance for the day ahead.

I am not alone, but it is a stolen moment of serenity before the chaos.

Sometimes, the darkness still calls to me. Over time, I learned to let those thoughts pass by like clouds in the sky. They do not devour me.

Beginning my day in this way grounds me as a Mother. I know it’s not possible for everyone, but finding a quiet moment can set the intention for the day. Our own nervous system is mirrored by our children for 7+ years. When we begin the day from a place of peace, this is echoed in our babies.

Equally, learning to find comfort in silence also had the unexpected consequence of letting God in.

When there was no noise to drown out the quiet presence of Him, God showed up in the most serendipitous of ways.

I could feel His support and love in beautiful moments alone in nature. Each morning I stand barefoot on the Earth, birds softly singing in the trees above, and the sun warming my face. I feel a connection to the Universe in ways that words cannot describe. God stands alongside me and I know that, no matter what life throws at me, I will not face it on my own.

Little did I know, that I had no reason to fear being alone… For God is always with me.

His love is ever-present; a reminder to live in the light, not succumb to fear.

Now, I choose to follow this path of light, and share it in any way I can, especially for my children. I hope that by facing my shadow and working through this darkness, they will never be afraid of quietly sitting with their own souls.

That they will always welcome those silent moments to listen for their inner voice - the compass to lead them through life.

That God will show up for them too, when they need it most.

Buy me a coffee☕️

Recently, we lay snuggled up together and my eldest daughter held up a new doll belonging to her baby sister. It was one of those little plastic ones from the pocket money section in the supermarket. Perhaps not the highest quality of toy but my toddler was obsessed with her for a week or two. Her big sister said, “whoever made this didn’t do a very good job of it.”

In my half-wakened state, I responded with “or maybe it’s exactly as it’s meant to be.”

Now, this doll’s head didn’t quite sit right. Her hat could not have been measured to fit that misshapen head either. But somewhere, subconsciously, I didn’t want to critique this little doll in front of my children. I recognised her flaws as part of her charm. Perhaps her peculiarity is exactly what drew my toddler towards her that day in the shop. She was not a carbon copy of every other doll on the shelf, perfectly sculpted to join an army of tiny clones, but a little different, flawed, unique.

Just as we are all different, and certainly not perfect in every way.

Thus began a spiral of thoughts inside the brain of this recovering perfectionist. A seemingly everyday moment in bed with my children led me to deeply consider our own perceived flaws and imperfections as women today.

I have judged myself many times for not being so “well made”, or potentially broken in some capacity. We are very good at playing the comparison game, particularly as Mothers. This is an easy trap to fall into when every time we log on, social media portrays the image of the perfect Mother/woman/body/home/career/family/clothes/life. If we are exposed to an idea often enough, it can become embedded into our psyche without conscious acceptance of it, then potentially regurgitated to our own children.

What a sobering thought.

I grew up in a time where magazines, television and the internet offered ‘skinny perfection’ to young girls and women in the Western world. Social media began to explode, my screen use was definitely not well monitored and we were perhaps less aware of the risks to our children’s safety online. Certainly, I do not feel there were concerns about how my exposure to content online or in the media was impacting my sense of self, body image or confidence.

And, yet, I vividly remember deliberating over the perfect display picture for years of my life. Does this angle make me look fat? I can’t smile like that, the gap in my teeth is awful. I need to straighten my hair first.

I have lost hours over-analysing the reflection staring back at me, berating myself for perfectly normal attributes that I somehow deemed defective.

Where did this hyper-fixation on the way I looked come from at such a young age? Who told me I had to look a certain way, and any deviation from the accepted standard was automatically ugly?

The media was certainly much to blame. But we also receive most of the messaging around who we should be in the world from the way we are raised.

How did I see my own Mother treat her own body, her looks?

Looking back, my mum undoubtedly had an undiagnosed eating disorder. She regularly made negative remarks about her own body in front of me as a child and vulnerable adolescent. My maternal Grandmother and my mothers sisters held similarly negative beliefs about their own bodies. (My Grandmother has been on a diet for my whole life, it seems!)

This was what I accepted as normal for women: to engage in self-depreciating behaviours, pick apart our own physical features and always strive to be smaller.

Then I gave birth to a daughter.

That voice inside my head critiquing every inch of my body was still there. Perhaps she should have quietened amidst the noise of life as a new Mother. Instead, she grew louder. Louder so she couldn’t hide amidst the noise but be paraded boldly at the forefront of my conscious mind for what she was: a fraud.

These hostile words were not mine.

This was not the dialogue I wanted to have, either out loud or in my head, as a Mother of a sweet and sensitive little girl. Never would I hope for her to speak to herself in the ways I had whispered to myself forever. Never would I wish for her to inherit this self-deprecation that has left me feeling unsafe in my own body for almost 30 long years.

The words she hears in childhood become the voice inside her own head as she grows, and that is not a legacy I want to leave behind.

This article (hence the title) is often a reflection of all the ways Motherhood has allowed me to heal parts of myself that were too painful to witness before. This is one such example. Becoming a Mother to now two little girls has shone a light on my insecurities like never before. What was once an accepted part of me, has since been deconstructed and released.

Now, I am not claiming I never look at myself in the mirror today and have a passing negative thought. There are ups and downs, just like every journey. But the difference is, these thoughts are fleeting. They float away with the breath like feathers in the wind. These words hold no weight in my world anymore, and they will never be the weight on my daughter’s shoulders, holding her back from loving herself exactly as she is.

Instead, having grown, birthed and nursed three babies in the last nine years, I respect my body for all she is capable of. I honour her for granting me the greatest blessings on this Earth. I love her for carrying me through the years I have spent playing, dancing, running, travelling, learning, creating, birthing, nurturing and loving my babies.

This body is beautiful, but she is not the part of me most worthy of discussion.

As I grow older and raise my own children, I recognise that our ‘looks’ are truly insignificant in the grand scheme of it all. Who we are, how we make others feel and the action we take to make the world a better place are far more exquisite than any hourglass figure or gorgeous flowing locks.

This journey of healing my body image has not been without trial, but I am so grateful it has allowed me to pass on a healthy relationship with my body to my children.

My girls will grow up honouring their bodies as the beautiful home to their souls, not a shell to tarnish and burn. They will only ever hear me pray at the alter of women, an act of reverence I hope they continue long after I am gone.

My son will only ever witness his Mother treat this body with love and kindness. He will never hear me tear it down. I live in hope that this will see him grow to respect women in ways generations of men before him could not.

This I am happy to leave behind for my children.

This is a legacy I am proud to put my name to: the belief that women are Goddesses who lovingly create and nurture new life on this Earth, from their own remarkable bodies. A force to be reckoned with. We are not flawless, much like my daughter’s doll, but whole all the same. Pure in every way that matters.

It also means, as a Mother, my eldest daughter is now an unbelievable eight years old, my baby girl is two, and I also have a four year old - the beautiful, bouncy blonde boy in the middle.

We hear so much about the middle child and how they may be treated differently to their siblings. I try to ignore much of it, in all honesty. I vow to not let my doubts about how society tells me I’m Mothering creep in during dark moments, particularly those spent lying awake during night feeds, when all I have are my thoughts for company. I choose to trust that I am doing my best in a society that does not support Mothers.

But something struck me recently about my son - my middle child - and it left me with an overwhelming feeling of sadness.

My youngest baby is now the exact same age her big brother was when she was born. Two years old and a matter of weeks.

But how can that be? She is still so little.

She still sleeps curled up like a kitten in bed with me all night. She still asks for milk like it is the solution to every problem alone. She still calls out for me for fear of abandonment, if I leave the room without her for too long.

She is still my baby.

So how could he have been grown up enough at this exact age, to share me so profoundly with a tiny, helpless newborn, who demanded everything I had? How did I think he was not just a baby himself?

The guilt washes over me like waves in a storm.

How could I have let this happen to him? My darling sonshine.

Then I see the way she saves her kisses just for him. The way he strokes her face so tenderly, whispering sweet lullabies like she is his very own baby to sing to sleep. I watch as they giggle together about nothing at all and I feel my heart swell in my chest.

The guilt is a wave, but the love is the whole storm.

Like everything in Motherhood, having multiples is bittersweet. The beauty of seeing them play together, form friendships and love each other deeply is second to none. The moment my older two met their baby sister for the first time is one of the best of my life, etched in my memory forever.

However, the guilt weighs heavy too. Never quite feeling like you can give enough of yourself to any one of your children. The way I devoted myself completely to my eldest daughter when she was a one and only feels like a dream now. That I can’t dedicate myself in the same way to my subsequent children does make me feel sorry, at times. Sorry I can’t be that Mother anymore. Sorry I am stretched so very thin now and time feels like it is slipping through my fingers.

Conversely, that Mother was also inexperienced. So, in many ways my eldest had all my attention, but perhaps I made a few more mistakes along the way. Having learned through experience, my second and third child each have a different Mother. One who has grown in so many ways, and holds herself very differently to a newly postpartum (read: shell-shocked) 25 year old me.

I believe we can write stories of the peaks and troughs of Motherhood until the end of time. The dichotomy is ever-present, as Mothers sit with joy and grief everyday. We are so very lucky to feel it all so deeply.

God has been truly gracious in granting me this role as Mother of three. The greatest lesson in love, patience and self compassion I have ever known.

I could talk about the endless benefits of breastfeeding, or how proud I am for persevering through all the challenges - for there have been many - but, in a moment of real vulnerability, I would like to admit a truth that is a little harder to share…

I started breastfeeding for all the wrong reasons.

Honestly, I had never even seen a woman breastfeeding her infant before I had my own. Where I am from breastfeeding rates are pretty low, and certainly not seen in public spaces. Family encouraged me to make the ‘easy’ choice to formula feed my baby and everything they said seemed logical.

Realistically, it made more sense to do as had always been done.

My own mother had fed me on formula and could advise me about the practicalities of bottle feeding. One of my best friends had not long transitioned her own son from bottles and could give me lots of tips. For this, I had a point of reference. With breastfeeding, I had no role models. No one guiding the way.

Yet, as I read about the benefits of breastfeeding as a newly pregnant and naive 25 year old, I wholeheartedly decided that it was for me. No ‘just in case’ bottles were purchased before baby was born. No research went into preferred formula brands or perfect prep machines (still not totally sure what they do). There was no other way.

This sounds like the determination of a new mother set to offer her baby the very best of nutrition from the outset, right? And, truly, it was. Yet the motivation behind it wasn’t completely selfless.

I’m an ‘all or nothing’ kind of person. When I learned that breastfeeding was the most nutritionally sound choice for my baby it triggered some subconscious belief within me that I have to be the best. ‘Breast is best’, so the saying goes. But was my desire to add breastfeeding to my stack of accolades truly the best driving factor behind the decision to feed in this way?

Probably not.

Now, I am grateful for that stubborn perfectionist version of me, for she carried me through some of the hardest times of my life.

My dedication to being ‘the best’ pushed me to persevere with breastfeeding through challenges like reflux, extreme sleep deprivation, food allergies, postnatal depression and cracked and bleeding nipples. Not toe curling pain, suicidal thoughts, nor giving up my beloved cheese pizzas could force me to throw in the towel.

Breastfeeding my baby was another tick on my list of achievements in life.

Yet I am also able to see, with hindsight, that my self worth was so intricately linked to external factors at that time. I believed my worth as a person lay in my capabilities and achievements, not existing intrinsically within me, irrespective of what I can or cannot do.

I can look back on that version of myself with tenderness and see her for what she was: a little girl inside who never learned that she was good enough exactly as she was. But if she did all these amazing things then she’d be good enough to love, right?

Motherhood, of course, cracked me open in the most incredible and life-shattering way possible. Slowly but surely my shadows began to reveal themselves. The aspects of my self that needed brought forward to allow the light in and let the healing process begin. My self worth was one of them and, perhaps, still is in many ways, as I continue to peel back new layers.

This shadow work as a young Mother eventually allowed me to rewrite those subconscious beliefs that told me ‘I am only worthy if I am doing.’

I’m so bloody glad the thing I was doing was breastfeeding, but now I know I’d still be a worthy human being regardless of how I chose to feed my baby. I’m still worthy no matter what I choose to do in life.

I am worthy just by being me.

Our choice to feed our children is exactly that: a choice. It’s a sensitive debate, I am acutely aware, and I speak only for myself in this article. Yet when I consider my decision to feed my baby the milk created by my own body, tailored to suit her every need, I am incredibly proud of myself… and a little saddened to think it could have been motivated by my shadow self.

Or perhaps it was divine intervention all along.

A higher calling.

Maybe my subconscious pulled me in that direction, knowing all along the cascade of events that would happen in light of this important decision.

Events that led to healing parts of myself that had for a long time felt wholly broken.

Events that led to breaking cycles of generations.

Events that led to a new way of living for my entire lineage.

Perhaps it was always meant to be this way, shadows and all.

When we are faced with challenging times in Motherhood, we often forget one important fact: we weren’t supposed to do it alone. Children are not born to be raised in isolation. The entire family benefits from living in a multigenerational unit, with women raising babies shoulder to shoulder, yet so rarely do we see such supportive communities nowadays. When it’s unbelievably hard and I ask myself “how am I supposed to do it all?”, I try to remind myself: I was never meant to.

I believe deep in my heart that the way Mothers have been designed to live is together, tending to each other’s needs, each other’s children as if they are our own, and ensuring Mothers are supported. When a Mother is given the space to thrive - physically, emotionally, spiritually - she is able to give so much more to her children. Yet so many women today are left feeling unsupported, stressed, exhausted and undernourished.

Is there a way of getting back to living in spaces like this? Well, we can still observe this today within some indigenous communities, but perhaps not so often in modern Western societies.

The Minangkabau people of Indonesia live in a Matriarchal society, with children born into the mother’s family home and the maternal family helping to care for them. The Navajo in Southwestern US raise children in extended family networks, with maternal kin in particular playing key roles in childrearing. The Mosuo children in China also receive lifelong care and support from their mother’s family.

I could go on.

Traditionally, we lived in strong, supportive, mother and child-centric groups. Mums were not expected to do it all alone, as we often are now. Somewhere along the way, we have forgotten. Rarely do we live in close-knit communities, with grandmothers and aunts tending to children cooperatively, so Mothers can also take care of their own needs and work in different capacities. There is an expectation to take it all on independently, especially as Fathers routinely work longer hours away from the home. As women, we spend extended periods on our own, caring for children in a world that is developing far quicker than any of us could have imagined. Or we are forced back into the workplace before either Mother or child is ready to separate, handing over that precious time with our infants to strangers in day care.

The reality of this can be very isolating for mums. I have certainly felt alone in my Motherhood journey on many occasions. I do not have a big supportive family around me (with the exception of my lovely Mother-in-Law, who does what she can to help), and it does weigh heavy at times.

In my darkest hours (which some may call ‘Postpartum Depression,’ but may simply have been a nervous system response to limited support, lack of understanding of Matrescence and terror in navigating my baby’s complex health issues - a story for another day), I felt helpless. The enormity of my responsibilities in Motherhood simply felt too great for me alone. I did not feel even remotely equipped for the task, despite holding all the love and nurture my baby could ever need.

It was in these depths that I found myself asking for help. Quiet pleas for a way through the darkness. To whom, I did not know. Yet to my surprise, God answered.

I was not raised in a religious home. We never went to church, and my family did not own a Bible. I had never known the power of prayer. Yet in my hour of need, God met me as I was.

I felt whispers on the wind. I saw the exact signs I had asked for, certain they could not be coincidences. God began to send Angels to me in my dreams or during meditation, when I needed their healing the most. My knowledge of Angels and how they could help us was almost non-existent at the time, but I sensed a deep knowing of who these messengers were, and vowed to take time to understand their different roles.

I began to pray every day and, even if I received no acknowledgment on some occasions, I knew in my heart my words were not being ignored. I began to truly feel seen and heard. Held, even, in a way I had never felt before.

In reaching what I saw as my ‘rock bottom’, I had actually managed to cling to a glimmer of hope. Hope that there was a way back into the light of Motherhood. That hope transformed into faith. Faith in a God we cannot see, but ultimately walks with us every day as Mothers, if only we open the door.

I do not have a village. I do not live within a supportive community I believe my species was designed to thrive within. But I do feel God is with me, gently guiding me home to myself in Motherhood.

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I’ve been trying to put into words the emotions coming up over this passing of time and it has not been easy. There is immense joy, of course, in seeing my beautiful baby grow and learn, and become more of a wee girl than a baby, really. There is gratitude too. How lucky I am to treasure two trips around the sun with a happy and healthy little one, in a world where tomorrow isn’t promised for every mother and child. Of this I am always acutely aware, and never take for granted. Each day is a gift with our children.

Which is why I am so surprised to discover there also sits something dark and heavy in the pit of my stomach when I think of the years passing so quickly with my children. How can there be ugliness when I am so truly blessed? I have asked myself this question for the last few weeks and puzzled over the emptiness I feel - a contradiction to all that love and abundance. If I was to give that feeling a name: loss.

My last baby growing up quicker than I could ever have expected has filled me with a grief that I did not see coming. It is the beginning of the end of the ‘baby stage’ I have been in the thick of for almost eight years. Do I even know who I am without an infant perched on my hip? Should I really feel this devastated at my almost baby-free future?

For there is profound sadness in knowing that never again will I experience the sheer miracle of conception; that wonderous feeling of elation at those brilliant blue lines. For a Mother who has longed so deeply for a baby, those two life-altering strokes of ink hold so much promise. Never again will I share the elation with my partner, our loving embrace at our ever-expanding family. Nor will we marvel over my changing body, the flicker of new life within. I won’t tenderly hold another growing belly and whisper love songs for a little person I have yet to meet. I will not feel my body’s true magic, by God’s design, bringing life into the world with only the power of my body, my breath and my sheer will. I won’t meet the tiny love of my life again for the first time, a moment I could never weave together words to describe in all it’s beauty.

There will be no more babies here. It feels very final. Yet I must look towards this new stage with wonder too. Who do I get to become in this next stage of Motherhood? As my babies grow a little older and need me a little less each day (sob!), what space does this create for me to find myself again? Not the version of myself made with parts I thought I had to be, but the honest, authentic, deep down in my soul me.

Thus, there may be sorrow with this passing of time, but there’s genuine excitement here too: at all the firsts that are still to come - my children’s and my own - and at a life spent rediscovering myself in Motherhood. As always, such opposing emotions can and do exist alongside each other, especially when Mothering, and when we acknowledge this is when we feel most like ourselves. Then, we can create the authentic life we so deeply desire with these beautiful babies.

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If you had asked me six or seven years ago what my purpose in life was, I’d say being a Mother. Full stop. End of discussion. Because truly I believe there is no greater role on this Earth.

Yet, when I burrowed deeper into the folds of Motherhood, I could not ignore the niggling feeling of some other purpose held within me.

We are led to believe that as human beings we must find our one single purpose we came here to pursue. That we have a definite goal in this life to work towards - once we have been on a journey to discover what it is, of course. Society says that when we achieve that singular purpose then every other area of our life is able to find completion too. Satisfaction in knowing we have accomplished our all-encompassing goal here on this planet.

I told myself Motherhood was that for me.

Follow the endless paths of joy

But when I actually let myself acknowledge that we are souls within a human body, here to have a human experience, it became clear to me that our paths could never be singular. If we are here to fully immerse ourselves in all that ‘being human’ has to offer, there really is no limit to where we may find purpose, in this life or the next. It stands to reason that our purpose may change and evolve over time, such is the nature of being human - ever evolving and changing with time and experience.

This means following what lights us up: the pleasure, the joys, the passions that are undoubtedly soul rememberings. Dance with whatever sets us on fire from within. A flame that burns for a short while or forever. There is no time limit on what gives us the satisfaction of living out our purpose. It evolves as we do. What gives us that fire in our belly now may not be the same thing in 5 or 10 or 20 years. Accepting that, too, is comforting. Shed the conditioning that tells us we must commit to a path from girlhood and follow it through until the end. With unwavering effort and grace. The feeling of a purposeful life does not live there, I promise you.

When we make this path of following joy our true calling, we find purpose in so much of what we do or become. It leads us down roads we never expected, uncovering new beauty and wisdom, but also lessons and uncomfortable truths. We are here for it all. In taking this path, we bathe ourselves in the rich experiences offered to us in our human body. Feel it all so deeply until it soaks into our very bones. Perhaps, after all, it is not important what we do, but how we feel in this life.

Feeling it all is the purpose

I spent so much of my life believing my feelings were my downfall. Not a compass to be trusted to guide me home to myself or live out that life’s purpose I so desperately searched for, but a living, breathing character flaw. A chink in my armour. I tried to tame the sheer depth of my emotions and dampen my capacity to feel it all so profoundly at any given moment. I wrapped up those feelings and kept them hidden somewhere deep inside me.

But feelings are meant to be felt. That, ultimately, is our purpose here on Earth: to feel. When we try to stop that natural ebb and flow, especially as women, feelings remain trapped inside our bodies and begin to fester and rot. My unexpressed shame turned into sickness. My repressed anger transmuted into illness. My hidden sadness slowly harmed me from within. We are not meant to live this way, keeping our emotions held tightly within. Emotion regulation is a necessary skill as an adult, yes, but we must first allow ourselves to actually feel the emotions, experience the range of feelings in all their entirety, and then set them free to trickle and flow where they must go into the world.

Maybe this means leaning in a little further to the negative emotions, which we are inclined to avoid. Society paints women who express anger, sadness, shame or jealousy as hysterical. We’re taught to be quiet, polite, smile and look pretty from the moment we are born as precious baby girls. Yet bypassing particular emotions is to ignore much of what it means to be human. Our depth of emotions are one of the elements that define us from other animals on this planet. To feel it all is not a curse, but our purpose here, especially as women - the creators, the nurturers. Emotions communicate all we need to know to love and care for ourselves and our families. To learn to listen to those calls is a magic like none I have ever known.

Feeling it all in Motherhood

I know now that to simply feel it all so deeply and follow those emotional lovenotes is my purpose, of which Motherhood has been the defining moment. What other experience in life takes us to the edge of perhaps every emotion known to woman? What other experience truly allows us to meet ourselves in all our imperfectly perfect Godliness? What other experience offers us a love so pure it transcends time and space?

Motherhood is not my sole purpose in this life. But it is the portal to all other purposes I have here. It is the lens through which I live out my purpose. Becoming a Mother has offered me many lifelines, one of which is to see my emotions as a life force, not an affliction or some untamed animal that needs to be contained. Being empathic, experiencing other’s feelings as if they are my own, and feeling the full spectrum of emotions in all their intensity have been truly a blessing in Motherhood. These gifts allow me to tune in with such precision to the needs and emotional states of my children. I am able to better hold and nurture them because of my empathic nature, not in spite of it. Empathy is my superpower.

With this depth of feeling I can also completely and unapologetically soak up the absolute joy of being a Mother. I cherish the tender moments, like my toddler offering sweet kisses, or the sound of my children giggling together. I can physically feel those fleeting joys lighting my heart up inside with warmth and love, my body responding in ways it was designed to. If this is not my purpose then I don’t know what is? It is not some external goal to be obtained, but simply the act of living, of being, of feeling.

Being, not doing

My highest purpose may well be the work I tend to within my home, nurturing my family. But it is not all of me. At the centre of it all, I am a human being. Our people are not here to chase or to do. We are not machines set to perform. We are beings. Let us be. And there we will find within us a deep sense of purpose we have perhaps held all along. Not an object to be pursued and set upon the mantle. Not a job, not an accolade, not a salary in the bank. Not even a title, like Doctor, Teacher or Mother. But a calm and comforting feeling gently warming us from within, the flame of a candle that burns bright long after we are gone.

Now, typical Western families see most Mothers having to work, receiving sometimes limited support from community or wider family. It was never meant to be this way. The load feels so heavy that at times I find myself trapped in the hamster wheel of my own thoughts, spiralling from one notion to the next and not knowing where to turn for support.

What needs prepped for dinner tonight? Oh, the baby needs a new hat. I must remember to buy sun cream too. I need to reschedule that appointment. I’ll have to work late tomorrow. The weekend is looking so busy already. I can’t take any time for myself. I feel so guilty. We need more family time. Am I actually spending enough one on one time with each child? On and on it goes, and with it the anxiety in the pit of my stomach grows.

I have found that our often unhealthy relationships with our phones can add to these feelings of anxiousness and overwhelming thoughts too. We are bombarded online with information about what a ‘good mother’ should be doing. These expectations add to the noise and somehow we find ourselves trying to do it all… do it all without help… and look good doing it too, right?

Then it can be a case of ‘the chicken or the egg’ as we attempt to dissociate as a means of coping with the overwhelming stress we were never designed to carry. A nervous system in shut down and the capacity to endlessly scroll online. Do we scroll because we can’t cope, or are we unable to cope because we spend too much time online?

Both the ever-increasing mental load of Mothering and the time spent in front of screens contribute to our overwhelm as Mothers, I believe. The two are part of the same coin that keeps us stuck in our heads, removed from the body, at the mercy of our endless thoughts.

But, our children are our teachers, as always in this life. And in times like these they can offer so much to us about the way in which we are inherently supposed to live.

Children are born present, only dancing in the few moments cast before us here and now. We watch as they consider how to climb or build or play, make mistakes and reassess. Never stopping to think about the tomorrows or months and years ahead. Their souls exist within their little bodies - not caught in an overthinking loop within the mind, which is perhaps learned behaviour we acquire as we grow. We can do well to take up space so unapologetically as they do. It’s a beautifully simplistic way of being and makes so much sense.

When I catch myself bouncing from one notion to the next I am learning to be more child-like. I make a conscious choice to pause, and ground myself back in my body. Stay rooted on the Earth, just as my babies do, moving and shaking and releasing in all the natural ways us humans should do.

Staying present in Motherhood is an intentional act. When I make this choice I can uncover a treasure trove of joy and wonder on the other side of presence. It is the light in my daughter’s eyes when she knows deep in her heart I am giving her story my absolute attention, not thinking of the next box to tick on my to-do list. It is whispered moments of unconditional love shared between siblings, often missed amidst the noise of my own buzzing thoughts. It is the quiet calm that settles in my chest as I sit against warm grass, babies in my lap, kisses offered freely.

I wish we were taught this as new Mothers. Our children truly need our presence above all, but it also saves us too. It is a reminder of all the beautiful reasons we have to be grateful. The load is perhaps far heavier than I ever imagined, but the measure of joy and love and laughter is too. When we find the scales tipping towards overwhelm, we only have to make that decision to get back in our bodies and sit with our children to regain balance. The more we practice this, the easier it becomes, and we create a ripple effect across generations to come.