The Secret Society of Mothers

breastmilk popsicles, anyone?

Photo by Margot Noyelle on Unsplash

Sitting on the bed amidst milk-stained sheets, it’s clear that my reality looks very different from the last time I wrote on Substack. This medium was more than a lifeline for me; it was a balm and a blessed medicine amidst the choking lows of loss and grief. Through writing, I could breathe again; through writing, I could let the grieving daughter be seen and heard. It feels like these articles were a time capsule for a version of self that was oh so tender, and I’m grateful she had this place to scream, cry, wonder, and heal.

I became pregnant, and the grieving daughter sat down for a moment, becoming more still, and more quiet. I went so deeply into incubation mode, all of my creative force flowing directly to my womb. I didn’t feel the need or desire to write or do any of the normal creative practices I had cherished. My attention was focused solely inward; my expression stewed and simmered in the holy pot of pregnancy. Quietly, I evolved.

I gave birth to our little girl in our living room, pulling her out of the water and onto my chest, the wondrous incubation complete. She was here; I had done it. Within days, or possibly even hours, I felt the Shakti bubbling within me again - the creative urge to express had returned. In the weeks to follow, as I stared off into nothingness and breastfed around the clock, my artistic mind turned online. The wisdom that I gleaned from the 9 months of “silence” now bursting forth - I need to write this all down! I need to make a note of it. All of it.

Motherhood and Grief go hand in hand. As we know, life means death. Where the newness is shaped, the old sloughs off. Where the blooms wilt, the holy rot ensues. To welcome motherhood is to welcome a massive death - of You! Surprise!

“You” as you thought you were… she’s gone.

Photo by Lucian on Unsplash

We hear about devotees embarking on life-changing spiritual quests, crawling on hands and knees, bloodied, bruised, hungry. Electing to leave the self they knew at the bottom of the mountain, returning home altered. The challenge and difficulty they experienced in the name of devotion reshaped something significant in their being forevermore. Pressure forms the diamond, and the fire births the Phoenix. We know this. And yet, when Life anoints a Woman into Motherhood - a bloody, hungry ritual in itself, the clock ticks on. The groceries still need to be bought, the emails responded to, and the cloth diapers washed. The mountain climbed on bandaged knees doesn’t call for a descent; it simply … plateaus. There is only this now. You have arrived. Your being attempts to integrate the ineffable experience of labor at 100 miles an hour. Processing as best you can while balancing a wailing babe on your hip, wiping the blood between your legs and attempting to pull up your diaper with one hand. Initiation by fire - ready, set, go.

As sure as you and I sit here, a Mother somewhere went through this same firey portal. Birth is so delightfully commonplace. So normal. It’s to be expected, as surely as the sun rises and sets. I’ve thought to myself over and over in the last 3+ weeks, “I can’t believe all moms have done this.”

No wonder they put bumper stickers on their minivans that say “Proud Mom” or carry around insulated coffee cups that read “Mama Bear.” … no wonder there are infinite Facebook groups, group chats, and Instagram accounts dedicated to Moms. No wonder people say, “You’ll understand when you’re a Mom.” There is indeed a secret society that you are sworn into. The secret society of ‘Mama’ has been my saving grace in these weeks - metaphorically, they have loaned me their free hand and helped me put on my diaper (graphic, no?)

After texting a few fellow Mothers at 1:30 am, baby at my breast, sharing my breastfeeding woes, I was shocked to see they had all replied to me before my next breastfeeding window of 3:30 am because *gasp* … they too were up in the middle of the night! I couldn’t believe this subsect of society existed, and I was unaware. Tired Mom’s in cahoots while the moon is high. Not studying in an adderal induced fervor, not raving in the nightclubs of Berlin, but simply: breastfeeding. Keeping their baby alive.

A younger, naive, silly version of me may have rolled my eyes at the bumper stickers and insulated cups, but not now. Oh, no, no. I will now walk around the world with teary eyes of admiration for every Mom. They traversed the holiest, most treacherous mountain, bloodied, hungry, and with leaking boobs.

I will forever be in awe of the Women who coax life into being, who bravely volunteer to be split into two, who die to themselves and are reborn Mother. She who nurtures existence with her entire heart, body, and soul.

Thank you.