Identity Crisis by Melissa Mowry

Nearly every day, I stumble upon another article or blog post or talk show interview about women who lost their identities when they became mothers. They speak of the driven, determined, confident women they were pre-children and the exhausted, milk-stained, yoga pants-wearers they’ve become.

They talk about feeling hemmed in by their new title, about wishing they were more than just Ethan’s mom or the person that signs the permission slips and drives the carpool on Tuesdays. They wax poetic about the successful careers they left behind to pursue motherhood full-time; they miss the thrill of being needed for something more pressing than poking the straw through the juicebox or mediating an argument about a broken Lego tower.

And I get it. I really do. Just the other day, I looked longingly at two Shop & Shop employees who were enjoying some of that lighthearted banter that gets you through the work day and I realized how much I miss having a co-worker who doesn’t spit pureed peas at me during the lunch hour and can actually string together intelligible sentences.

I miss having something more interesting to tell my husband when he asks about my day than a particularly gruesome blowout or the weird thing someone said to us in the grocery line. Parenthood is a monumental life change and it would be unrealistic to think that it doesn’t come with some measure of growing pains.

But, for me, the person I’ve become in the short time I’ve been a mother fits so much better than the identities I was trying on in the preceding 26 years. Being a mom makes sense to me in a way that so many other personas never did; instead of terrifying and panic-inducing, motherhood feels comfortable and confidence-inspiring, even during the times when I have exactly zero things figured out.

Let me explain.

I spent most of my late teens and early-to-mid 20s feeling decidedly uncomfortable in my own skin. Not all that uncommon, I realize, but for me, it was at an extreme. I was a harsh and exacting (and probably very self-centered) judge of my body, my personality, my life choices. I hurried through life stages, always thinking the next phase would be my time, my opportunity to finally figure it all out and become the person I really wanted to be.

By the end of high school, I couldn’t wait to move on to college where I saw my future really unfolding. Then, once I reached college, I scrambled to graduate early, so I could join the work force and really prove myself as a person of value.

In the absence of a true identity, I struggled with a debilitating eating disorder throughout college and for several years post-grad, figuring, if nothing else, I would be defined by my thinness. During those years, I saw other people with confidence and self-assurance seemingly oozing out of their pores and, for a little while, I’d try on their personalities, hoping one would fit. Of course, they never did.

Once I entered recovery for my eating disorder, I developed a lot more confidence and I really started to hit my stride. But still, I had spent so many years defining myself by my weight, that I had no idea who I really was once I came out on the other side. I jumped from job to job, never finding one that truly stirred up my passions or even one I could tolerate on a 9-5 basis for more than a calendar year. I was happy, but adrift.

And then I got pregnant. Things quickly started to come into focus for me; I felt like the people in the Claritin commercial after the blurry film is ripped off the screen. I parted ways with my stressful job as the manager of a daycare center, which came with long, demanding hours and a 2-hour daily commute. I began working as a barista at a coffee shop, where the pay was markedly less, but where I felt truly comfortable, sneaking bites of broken cookies as my belly swelled and customers began to count down the days right along with me.

And then the baby came. Despite what I may have led you to believe by my earlier statements, new motherhood was not all smiles and rainbows. I had a very rough go with breastfeeding, my recovery from childbirth was long and painful and my son didn’t sleep for 6 weeks without one of us holding him. But still, I felt at ease in a way that I hadn’t in such a long time. I was made to do this; I knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Becoming a stay at home mother was a logical step for me. I didn’t have a career to go back to and it just felt like the right fit. Some days it’s frighteningly easy. And others—like today, when I’m struggling through the nausea and exhaustion of a second pregnancy, trying to keep up with a very active 10-month old—I wish I had an office door I could close, so I could curl up in the fetal position under my desk.

That being said, even on the worst days, when the floor is coated in Cheerio dust and the baby naps for 10 minutes total, I know I’m exactly where I should be. My feet are finally still (maybe stuck to my dirty floor) and I’m not constantly looking for the exit. After a decade of pushing too much and trying too hard, I’ve finally come into my own, with none of the pomp and circumstance I always expected. As it turns out, mom is my best identity yet.

About Melissa:

Melissa is a stay at home mama to 10-month old Chase and wife to her high school love Adam, with baby #2 on the way in August 2015. She blogs at One Mother to Another, about navigating new motherhood without having a clue if you’re doing any of it right. In her spare time (read: before kids) she enjoys recipe experimentation, killer Crossfit workouts and bottomless glasses of wine. (But she’ll settle for just the wine.)

You can also find her on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and Pinterest.

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