Splitting into Whole
A glimpse into my matrescence thus far
“I was born when she was born,” she says, shaking her head in awe, her eyes focused on mine.
Uncomfortable and unsure what to say, I shift my gaze. To the suburban sidewalk on which we’re standing; to Birdie, nosing at something in the neighbor’s yard; to the faded can of sugar free Red Bull, sitting dirty, empty, and crumpled against the curb. Then I return my eyes to those of my friend’s. Tears perch at the rim of her lower lids.
At eighteen entire months postpartum, I can’t believe her reaction is still so potent; that her retelling of this universal experience is so saccharine. I feel nauseous. Three months along with my first — a solid twelve weeks deep (thank god), and still six months shallow (god damn) — I am actively repulsed by the prospect of my own rebirth.
Giving birth to one new person is enough.
What’s wrong with who I am already?
***
“Do you have any questions for the doctor?” asks the nurse after recording my weight and blood pressure.
Where do I begin?
What are the best prenatal vitamins? Is generic okay? Is it safe to keep teaching hot yoga? To practice hot yoga? Weight train? Run? Can I keep getting Botox? Keep coloring my hair? Manicuring my nails in my favorite Cajun Shrimp hue? Speaking of shrimp, I can’t eat them anymore? Nor deli meats, nor Camembert, nor runny yolks? How serious is the well-done meat thing? Could we compromise with medium? How much coffee can I drink? What if I need an afternoon pick-me-up? Can I enjoy an occasional glass of wine? A beer? Is one drink really gonna do harm? Can I keep sleeping with my phone by my bed? Use my laptop on my lap? Or will the proximity of those devices subject her — and me — to noxious electromagnetic exposure? When will I feel her kick? Be able to see her elbow? Her knee? Her butt? Will my belly button pop out? Will it stay out? What do Braxton Hicks feel like? What do contractions feel like? Will I know the difference? How? Do most first-timers typically deliver early, on time, or late? Since I’m due near Thanksgiving, could I opt for induction? Is it too early to ask? How can I prevent tearing? What if I accidentally poop? Would that compromise her microbiome? What if I wind up with a C-section? Will that compromise her microbiome? When will my anxiety dissipate? When will my resentment fade? How can I prevent postpartum depression? Diastasis recti? A loose vagina? How do I fix all that? When I will I start feeling more like myself again, physically? When I will I start feeling more like myself again, mentally? When will I go back to normal? To the woman I used to be? The woman I had finally come to love?
“Not today,” I say with a smile.
I don’t want to seem naïve.
***
On the outside, not much has changed — yet. But on the inside, I’m completely out of control. Like one of those inflatable tube-men you see careening about outside a used car dealership, eyes painted wide and smile painted Cheshire, I’m flailing.
I used to be a subject worthy of attention, the leading lady of my own conversations. Now she is.
I used to make choices based on my own desires, spent my time devoted to interests that stoked my internal fire. Now I have Responsibility.
I used to have style and cachet that, at least from my own vain perspective, made me cool. Now I am the antithesis of cool: now I am a mom.
But I don’t feel like it.
If I’ve been told anything over my last 31 years, it’s that motherhood is the ultimate goal; a wholly-fulfilling touchdown I will score on the path to selfless actualization; the third and final box I need to tick after finding love and getting married before I can consider myself complete.
If I’ve been told anything throughout the course of my pregnancy, it’s that I was not only made to do this, but made to enjoy this; that my own glittering maternal instincts are lying in wait within me, eager to be released and shine bright; that because of my double-X chromosomes, both the role of Mother and the duties of mothering will send me into a state of maternal bliss.
And if I’ve been told anything over the last few years, as a few of my friends have entered this rite of passage a few steps ahead of me, it’s that a successful planned pregnancy is a blessing; a quick conception is a gift; since there’s no “wrong” time to get pregnant, achievement of this sought-after status should be met only with gratitude, and joy, and ease, and satisfaction, and grace, and ethereal happiness.
Yet, if I’ve intuited anything throughout my first trimester, it’s that everything I’ve been told is a lie.
***
“I mean, of course I’m excited,” I convince my therapist. Convince myself. Sitting barefoot and cross-legged on her gray twill couch, I hug a squishy chenille pillow above my swelling belly. “But I’m also…” I trail off, wracking my brain for the precise word that will articulate what I’m feeling; an emotion I still haven’t been able to define, now five months in.
“Terrified?” I try. “Or maybe…” My throat tightens. I grab a tissue from the box of Kleenex, reliably set atop the ottoman in front of me. Just then, my eyes settle on the laminated sheet of paper, a rainbow-colored list of emotions that lies permanently adjacent to the tissues.
I scan: anger, disgust, excitement, fear, joy, relief — then I see it.
“Sa-a-ad,” I blubber.
Shame, shame, shame.
***
In November of 2019, Christmas came early, I type. Wesley told me he was getting me a dog.
I was so excited, I cried. But even still, as we drove three hours west to get her, from a dusty old Shell station just outside of Jackson, I couldn’t ignore the nerves that rose in my chest. Would I know how to take care of her? Would he help me take care of her? Was I really committed to walking her every day? To paying to get her fixed? Paying to get her vaccinated? Paying to get her stomach pumped if and when she ate something she definitely shouldn’t have? Would I even think she’s cute?
For the eight hundredth time, I’m trying to make sense of the cacophony that still swirling like a tornado inside me. That’s still shaking me down after seven unyielding months. I want to find the words that will assuage my anxiety. The words that will gas me up. The words that will settle me down. They say words create worlds, so I’m trying to find roughly 1500 of them that will help me clarify my own — past, present, and future.
I was wholly unprepared for how entirely Birdie changed me.
Once a lover of going out, I became inclined to stay in. Once focused only on my own needs, I became preoccupied over hers. Once hell-bent on inhabiting a dirtless, hairless, spotless home, I became a person who co-slept with her canine, gladly welcoming her lawn-tinted paws into our pristine white bed. Birdie filled a space I hadn’t known existed. She softened me; slowed me down —
“What are you doing?” calls Wesley from downstairs, interrupting my train of thought.
“Writing,” I shout back. Then sigh. “Hoping this isn’t a giant mistake.”
***
She’s here — our daughter.
And I’m still here, too — sort of.
I’m a foreigner in my own body. An outsider in my own brain. I’m acting, but don’t know how to play the part. Haven’t done enough research into the role.
I want to rewind to the woman I once was — familiar, safe. I want to fast forward to the woman I’m supposed to become — selfless, better. I want to relieve myself from this terrible limbo state in between; this diastasis of myself.
***
In the days since her arrival, life has come to a screeching halt. Despite my inclination to be a body in motion, this 5 lb. 13oz. bundle of suddenly external human force has brought me to a standstill.
There are no more Zoom calls or emails. No more projects or achievements. No more dates, or plans, or activities to anticipate. There’s no more live music, or dinners out, or coffee dates, or sweaty workouts. No more walks with friends. No more travel itineraries. No more time for me. Only time for her.
Time is ruled by her. Measured by her. It’s time for a feed. Time for a change. Nap time. Play time. Bath time. Bed time.
Mornings and evenings, afternoons and midnights, everything blends together. Days into weeks; weeks into months; months into an entirely new year. No quarters completed, holidays celebrated, or seasons changed. Only the weight she’s gaining, the sleep she’s logging, the sharpening of her sight, the rounding of her skull.
Our daughter is our calendar. She is our passage of time.
Despite her teensy size, her penchant for spitting up, and the unrelenting energy she devotes to crying her big little eyes out, I can clearly see — feel — that she is making progress.
When it comes to me, however, I’m not so sure. I no longer exist. At least, not in the way I used to know me.
I am no longer a person outside of Mommy. No longer a woman with interests outside of my giant, milk-producing breasts. No longer a person who is passionate about much other mastering the art of a tight swaddle. No longer someone whose goals, ambitions, dreams, and triumphs extend outside the confines of her offspring.
Her growth has become my life, and yet somehow my life has become stagnant.
***
It’s been three weeks. A month. Five weeks. Now six. Forty-two days since she barreled out of my vagina. And I haven’t done a thing — not a thing.
I spend my time feeding her, burping her, changing her, rocking her. Pumping my boobs for her. Waking up at all hours of the night for her. Scream-crying at her to stop scream-crying at me. Praying she’ll sleep. Praying I’ll sleep. Drinking six cups of coffee because I’m exhausted. Drinking even more coffee because I can. Crying while taking my daily allotted shower. Crying when I’m left alone for the day to take care of her by myself. Crying while folding the mountains of laundry we somehow create. Crying because I don’t entirely understand why I’m crying so much.
***
I need to move. Shake the cobwebs. Reconnect with the former version of myself — a body that went places; had momentum; made progress.
I decide to go for a walk.
I pull on my loosest pair of yoga pants. Slide into my dusty tennis shoes. Watch a YouTube video that explains how to turn what looks like a twelve-foot-long scarf into a safe and cozy infant carrier. Then I try it. Fail. Watch it again. Try it again. One more time. Whatever, good enough.
I grab my favorite sunglasses. Leash up the dog. Walk out the door.
One step at a time.
***
“The first birthday party isn’t really for the baby,” they say. “It’s for the parents. You’ve kept her alive for a whole entire year!”
The morning of, she wakes up with double pink eye and an ear infection. Also, it’s pouring rain.
Guess my party is canceled.
Let’s just have another.
***
Because the biggest split has already splat, the second one isn’t as shocking. Besides, there’s already a Grand Canyon between Me Then and Me Now.
How much wider could it get?
***
At eleven months old, my son is finally in. Daycare, alongside his older sister. Hallelujah!
At eleven months (thirty-three months?) postpartum, I can finally return to her — to me — once more. Hallelujah!
With seven glorious hours now available to me, I sit at my desk and open my computer.
I stare.
I can’t.
Suddenly, everything seems trivial. Inconsequential. My brain and my body have been wholly remodeled.
SEO-optimized website copy for a local general contractor? Website design for a contemporary artist specializing in acrylic and mixed media painting? A four-part email campaign focused on properly managing and expediting lein waivers for a construction-focused financial technology startup?
It doesn’t fucking matter. At least, not to me. Not anymore. I’ll never fully return to her. To myself. To who I used to be.
I take off my shoes and wade into the ocean of grief.
***
I’m done. Closed it down. Took some time. Hired a coach. Still have Swiss cheese for brains. Still don’t know how to conjugate the woman I once was with the person I am now.
Though I’m happy in my home, I feel unsettled in my soul.
“One of my favorite quotes goes something like this,” my career coach says to me. “’Figure out what breaks your heart, then turn it into your passion.’”
I can’t quite get my arms around it, but there’s something that’s ruptured inside of me. Something’s happened. Been happening. And it’s breaking my heart into smithereens.
***
“What do you want to listen to?” I ask, once they’re both buckled in and I am too.
“Taylor Swiff!” chirps my daughter. I should have known. I make a face. “We’ve been doing Taylor all week — how about something different?” She frowns. “Kacey?” I ask, raising my brow. Instantly, her smile returns. Vigorously, she nods.
We’re already a minute into the second song, the title track of her latest album, when I feel a familiar strain in my throat, like a flash-dance of tonsilitis; a familiar clench in my chest, like a cardiovascular tug-of-war; a familiar tingling in my eyes, like they’ve been steeped in a pool full of chlorine.
So I’m getting rid of the habits that I feel
Are real good at wasting my time
No regrets, baby, I just think that maybe
It’s natural when things lose their shine
Although I’ve listened to this song at least a hundred times and know every word by heart, somehow, here in the car, with my three-year-old singing along in the seat right behind me, and my one-year-old listening in, his eyes wide and his mouth pacified, it suddenly sounds new.
It suddenly hits different.
I’ve gotten older, now I know
How to take care of myself
I’ve found a deeper well.
The light turns green. My car accelerates. My emotions do, too. Tears spill from my eyes, darkening my favorite jeans with salty spots of indigo.
***
Intently, she looks at me and fourteen others from behind giant, red-framed glasses; from the confines of a tiny, digital rectangle; from her white-washed office on the other side of the globe.
“When we become a mother, it’s like we split in two,” she says. I stare, bewitched, my arms as textured as a basketball. “We are still who we used to be — that woman isn’t totally gone. But we’re also a mother, and she’s not fully formed yet either.”
It’s my first day. First class. First big step forward after what has felt like a hundred steps back. I have a goal. I’m making progress. Pursuing my future role outside of Mother. Pursuing my former self who dreamed and did. Pursuing this new version of me: a woman and a mother who helps other mothers find their new paths forward, too.
Like the type-A student I used to be (turns out, still am) I frantically take notes. Liberally deploy my highlighter. Scribble in the margins with my favorite fuchsia pen. I am on fire. Completely consumed by something that was, until recently, completely nameless. Something I’d so strongly experienced, but had no words to explain.
“A word that sounds similar to adolescence — the enormous transition a child goes through as they become an adult — matrescence is the equally massive change a woman experiences as she becomes a mother. It’s a change that is physical, hormonal, emotional, psychological, social, cultural, financial, and spiritual. It affects her entire being.”
My heart sears in my chest.
“Matrescence is the complete transformation and identity shift of a woman as she moves through motherhood.”
Now knowing, I finally have the word to explain my world. Now knowing, I finally feel less alone, less broken. Now knowing, I am finally on the pathway to whole. Ravenous to get there. Desperate to help others get there too.
“Throughout this ongoing transformation, we bring those two parts together — the woman we once were and the mother we are becoming — to realize who we are now,” she says. “Matrescence is here to awaken us; to awaken us to our higher consciousness and to birth the next true version of you.”
Tears perch at the rims of my lower lids.
At eighteen entire months (40 entire months?) postpartum, I can’t believe my reaction is still so potent; so visceral. That her description of this universal experience is suddenly so illuminating; hopeful.
More than four years into matrescence, I am revived. Actively awakened by the promise of my own rebirth.
xox
Mom Dog
PS - If you’re a new mom struggling with the colossal identity shift that motherhood brings, or you’re having a hard time reconciling the mother you want to be with the woman you once were, please get in touch. For a short while, I’m offering FREE motherhood coaching. I know what it’s like to be caught between the woman you were and the mother you want to become — and I know that with the right support, you can fit them both together.
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There she is <3<3
This writing is gorgeous and so are you.
so, SO good mads