When I try to be a better human, I become a better mom.

On ambivalence in motherhood and identity

Ben and me with our five kiddos. Salamon Farm Park, Fort Wayne, IN, circa fall 2022. Photo credit to Joy Main.

The vibrancy I feel in my heart, but also in waves throughout my entire body, tells me that the conversation with Katie today taught me a vital lesson: I am first a human before I am a mother. And the more I tend, with compassion, to my humanity, the better a mother I will be.

For the audio version of this essay, please listen to the voice clip below:

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“What advice would you give to a young woman who isn’t sure about becoming a mom?” I am sitting across from Katie, a young woman herself, who is reading my book Reluctant Mom during a local Human Library event. She’s my first reader of the day, and I’m hoping to engage in dialogue about my ambivalence in becoming a mother.

I just finished my introductory comments, which I try my best to summarize: “Hi, I’m Jeannie, and my book title is Reluctant Mom. Thanks for joining me today for this reading. I’d like to share with you the main points of my story, and then we can go in any direction you’d like. There’s no question or topic that’s off limits for me.”

I’ve told Katie I was raised in a conservative Catholic home. I grew up with the nudge from my mom and many others in our church community to “have as many children as God gives you,” which I never entertained much until I met Ben at age twenty-five. That’s when I thought about becoming a mother. I didn’t grow up around babies, never witnessed a mom nursing one or cuddling one or changing a diaper. I babysat only once, when I was sixteen, and it ended in an anxiety attack. The truth is that I didn’t believe I could be a mother, because I wasn’t sure how to be one.

I did want to grow up and write books, however.

Katie has been a kind and thoughtful reader. She didn’t wince or flinch in horror at learning these things about me. Instead, she smiles and interjects to tell me that she works with young moms. I assume she is a social worker, but I don’t ask. Now, she has caught me off guard with this question that no one has ever asked me before.

The sky spills onto Katie’s eyes, which are concealed by her sunglasses. I stare past her, my eyes darting across the pavilion’s patio, where we sit outside on an unusually temperate March afternoon. There are families gathered at Promenade Park, some riding bikes, some strolling with their dogs. There are young moms and dads, mostly, and their children range from infants to about ten years old. They’re enjoying themselves: I can tell because of the laughter they share.

I return my gaze to meet Katie’s sunglasses, though I can’t read her completely because her eyes are hidden from my view. I try, anyway. “That’s a question no one has ever asked me,” I begin. Then, a heavy pause. I don’t know what to say. What would I tell someone about becoming a mother? What it’s like? What would I have said to myself before this all happened—before I got married and gave birth to five tiny humans?

Stammering, I muster a meager, “I—I don’t know. I guess I would tell them that it’s not something out of a 1950s magazine, but it’s also not completely horrible, either.” She nods, waiting for more. I was hoping this would suffice, but I sense she wants me to continue. I haven’t had time to think about this, not thoroughly, and my mind freezes.

I know I am speaking to myself at age twenty-five.

My shoulders finally relax. I notice, because I had armored myself when Katie first brought the question to my attention. Now, they are limp and I think I know why: because I just received an epiphany, and I want to share it with Katie. I want to emblazon it in my own mind, too.

“Here’s my greatest piece of advice: If you work on knowing yourself, you will become a better mom, and thus a better person. It’s important to understand what triggers you, whether you have a trauma history that’s complicated or not, and then take these things to therapy. Find a way to channel your recognition of how you react to things, like people’s comments. Funnel them into something constructive that will clear your mind and allow a greater understanding of yourself to surface.”

I can’t stop now. I’ve touched upon something that exceeds my story, which, until this moment has centered upon my unrealistic expectations of motherhood and how I ended up passively suicidal once I discovered my fifth pregnancy (which was unexpected). But now I see something broader than myself and my story: there is self-transcendence here, that elusive Something Greater I seem to never grasp yet still believe is out there.

Katie grins, then laughs. It’s not an inappropriate laugh, like a cackle or howl. It’s a knowing laugh, one that happens when two people share a commonality, however a stretch it may be. “Thank you for that,” she punctuates. I don’t know what to say. Again. Except this: “You’re welcome, Katie. But thank you for this conversation and for sharing your insights and your time with me today.”

We part after our time ends, and I feel flushed with euphoria. This is something I haven’t felt in over four years: embodiment. Attunement with self. That recognition when something that feels good just transpired, and you contributed to it.

For so long, I attributed my burgeoning discouragement to being shackled at home with five needy kids.

—Here’s where the qualifying digression happens: I love all five of them. Always have. I do not regret their existence. In fact, I celebrate who they are becoming. I see how the world needs who they are, how people are touched by their gifts. I believe every human is meant to shed light in this bleak world. And my kids do that.—

What really happened was that postpartum depression seized my life, stole my light, robbed me of many years I might have otherwise perceived the good things about being a mom. The vibrancy I feel in my heart, but also in waves throughout my entire body now, tells me that the conversation with Katie today taught me a vital lesson: I am first a human before I am a mother. And the more I tend, with compassion, to my humanity, the better a mother I will be.