The Dance Between Motherhood and Selfhood
It begins quietly. A heartbeat within your own. A rhythm you don’t yet understand but instinctively protect. Pregnancy, with all its stretching and swelling, subtly rewrites your identity. And then, in that fierce, unspeakable instant of birth—body cleaved, heart opened—you become a mother. But what becomes of the « you » that existed before?
Too often, we are told—softly, insistently—that motherhood means selflessness. That to love our child wholly we must vanish a little. In truth, being a good mom doesn’t mean losing yourself. It means expanding your capacity to hold space for both your children and your personal essence. You are woman and mother. You are allowed to be both.
Redefining the Narrative: What Makes a « Good » Mom?
The myth of the flawless, ever-present, always-joyous mother lingers like a ghost in modern motherhood. But let’s be honest—this version of motherhood is not only outdated, it’s unsustainable. A “good” mom is not measured by how much of herself she sacrifices, but by how authentically she lives, how deeply she connects, and how lovingly she guides.
Let’s give ourselves permission to redefine what maternal love looks like. It can be fierce and gentle, structured and spontaneous, full of devotion yet enriched by independence. The truth? Our children don’t want perfection. They want presence. They want to see a full, breathing, thriving version of us—flawed, human, vibrant. That’s where love dwells.
Start With the Mirror: Identity as Foundation
Before we’re mothers, we’re something else—students, artists, lovers, dreamers, poets. So, I ask you gently: Who were you, and who are you now?
Identity isn’t a coat we take off and store in the nursery. It’s woven into our skin. Yet, in the daily symphony of feeds, laundry, tantrums, and lullabies, our mosaic can feel buried. That’s why reclaiming space for « self » is not selfish, it’s sacred.
Try this:
- Start a journal where you write to yourself—not as « Mom, » but as you. Ask: What do I long for? What moves me? What am I curious about?
- Revisit something that once lit you up—a forgotten skill, a book, a place, a type of music. Let that flame flicker again.
- Use small rituals (a morning stretch, a mantra with your tea, a few pages read before bed) to whisper, “I still see me.”
The Art of Boundaries (Built with Love, Not Bricks)
Motherhood demands a constant yes. But what if embracing our identity begins with learning to say no—yes, to others, but also to ourselves when guilt wants the final word?
Boundaries are not walls; they’re invitations. They say: I respect you enough to be honest. I honour myself enough to ask for space. And they can be deeply feminine—fluid, kinds, evolving.
Here’s how setting boundaries can look:
- Carving out one non-negotiable hour per week just for you (even if it’s only a walk or a quiet bath).
- Asking for support—from a partner, a friend, a neighbour—without apology, and without the need to “repay.”
- Letting your child witness you saying « not now » because you’re finishing writing, resting, or simply breathing.
Our children need to see that women are complex beings, not just fountains of oatmeal and lullabies.
Connection First. Guilt Last.
Mama guilt is like fog—it creeps in and blurs everything. That skipped playdate, that daycare drop-off, that moment when you scrolled your phone instead of building Lego towers… and suddenly you’re questioning your worth.
But guilt only serves if it invites reflection. If it diminishes you, challenge it. Next time it whispers in your ear, try asking: “Is this guilt telling me I missed a core value—or is it simply echoing impossible expectations?”
There’s deep beauty in choosing presence over performance. Sometimes, quality really does trump quantity. Ten minutes of full-bodied laughter with your child, your attention undivided, sings louder than hours of distracted babysitting.
And loving yourself out loud—taking joy in your passions, showing that growth doesn’t end with motherhood—is perhaps the best gift you can give them.
Mother as Muse, Not Martyr
There is profound strength in showing your children what it means to live truthfully. When they see you pursue a dream, wrestle with questions, take time for stillness, or savour beauty—they learn that womanhood is not a role of depletion, but of blooming.
Your creativity, your sensuality, your voice—they don’t fade when the baby comes. They evolve. Feed them gently, without pressure. Let them breathe between basket loads of laundry and goodnight kisses. Even if it’s one line of poetry scribbled on a napkin, or five minutes of dancing in the kitchen while pasta boils—claim it. That’s you, still here, still rising.
Think of this not as balance, but as rhythm. Some days, the melody skews toward the children; other days, you get a solo. What matters is that the music never goes mute.
Mindfulness: The Anchor in the Tumble
Life as a mom is rarely quiet. But within the whirlwind, mindfulness can be your steady stone, a way of staying rooted even when the earth (and your toddler) shakes.
Even small moments of awareness can return you to yourself:
- Anchoring your breath while watching your child sleep—inhale, exhale, remember: this is now.
- Eating slowly, even if just for one bite, and feeling its texture, tasting its story.
- Practicing a body scan scan while nursing or rocking. Where is tension nestled? Where does joy bloom?
By inhabiting the moment fully, you reconnect with your body, your soul, your autonomy. And from there, you mother with deeper presence—not from depletion, but from overflow.
A Sisterhood of Becoming
Lastly, know this: you are not alone. Every mother I know is negotiating this sacred paradox—how to give endlessly while not disappearing completely. There’s healing in speaking that truth aloud. In gathering with women who won’t judge your messy home or your unbrushed hair, but will celebrate that fire still flickering in your chest.
Maybe that’s why you’re here, on this blog. Because something in you is rising. Something that says: I can mother and be me. I can raise life without dimming my own light.
Let’s hold space for imperfection. Let’s cherish the days when everything falls apart and remember it doesn’t mean we have. Let’s reimagine motherhood not as surrendering ourselves, but as returning—again and again—to all that we are, and all that we’re becoming.
And maybe tonight, after the last lullaby is whispered and the dishes beg for mercy, you’ll stand before the mirror and say to your reflection: « I am a good mom. And I am still me. »
