The Rediscovery of My Truest Self in Motherhood
Reflections on the three things that have surprisingly carried me back home to myself
I find myself feeling pulled to write more about motherhood lately, which I have mixed feelings about.
Prior to bringing Margot home in October, I told myself that I wouldn’t allow my identity to become wholly entangled with being a mother.
And it hasn’t, but back then I told myself a lot of things –
I would be me, she would be she.
We would be separate, but together.
Church and state, I suppose.
But, of course, things didn’t pan out that way.
And how grateful am I that they didn’t.
This season has shown me to every facet of myself – the good, the bad, the messy – and a new realm of rediscovery has been unlocked in the process.
Landing myself in motherhood has surprisingly looked more like a return to who I once was, a homecoming to my soul, than stepping into an entirely new identity.
I find myself shrugging off all of the personas that I’ve tried on for size over the last decade – the driven corporate career woman, the blogger and content creator, the business owner – to focus on this role of modeling the most genuine version of myself for my daughter.
I’ve organically returned to the three rituals and pastimes that have kept me rooted within my being throughout life; the things that have anchored me through every decade of existing:
Writing, film and food.
When I return wholly to myself during these fleeting 40-minute nap time intervals, these things anchor me to my truest self and serve as a salve to the soul.
Writing is the single-most natural inclination I’ve known.
Since I was able to hold a pencil and understand the written word, I’ve penned stories upon essays upon poems like my life depends on it (because, sometimes, it’s felt like it has).
The fast rhythms of life pulled me away from writing in my 20s, when Friday nights out basking in the bright city lights were suddenly more alluring than a quiet evening at home scrawling in my notebook.
But now, life has slowed and forced me to turn inward, to feel again. Words come spilling out and onto the page as parts inside of me break open to let the light in day and day again.
Film feels like an escape and a feast of creativity.
For a brief moment in time, I aspired to be a film writer. Summer breaks were spent ordering Netflix DVDs to my home (remember those days?), blowing through stacks of Wes Anderson, Darren Aronofsky, the Duplass brothers, and posting tongue-in-cheek reviews to my Blogspot (again – remember those days?).
As I moved from Atlanta to Denver to St. Louis, I carried along a mental map of every independently owned cinema, remembering the magic that played out on each screen.
I don’t know when the next time is that I’ll sit in the serene, still darkness of a theater. But I’ve returned to my ritual of viewing a film or two each week at home – this week it’s “Horse Girl” (an odd, wild ride – pun intended) and “Blue Jay” (a new, nostalgic favorite) – and getting lost in a storyline feels like finding a part of myself again.
Food feels nourishing in myriad ways.
Growing up in the South meant that food was a cornerstone of our family. We gathered around cornbread, collard greens, creamed corn and other fried bits and bobs picked from my great-grandmother’s garden – always together, always nourished.
I’ve rediscovered a core part of myself in the kitchen, experimenting with flavors, textures and spices, unafraid of spoiling a recipe and knowing full well that a few bad meals are par for the course when it comes to cooking.
Delving into food and working with my hands has carried me through this bitter Midwest winter – it’s warmed and comforted and softened me to myself on the days when I’ve felt hardened and wrung-out. And for that, I’m thankful.
As overwhelming and all-consuming as these early days of motherhood often feel, I must remember that there is still a place for me in them, too.
In the tender, trying moments I’ve said aloud, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
But the truth is, I do.
The truest self – myself – exists right here, in these very rituals and pastimes that have serendipitously reintroduced themselves back into my life.
What a beautiful gift rediscovery is.
