All the Things, Fuck.

Fuck: A word that can be calmly said, begrudgingly uttered, passionately yelled, and held back in thought in nearly every scenario of motherhood. To be clear, I am not insinuating that the use of fuck— in anyone’s scenario— is anything more than an expletive, which does wonders to release emotion and make me feel powerful; after all, motherhood can feel like a series of experiences out of my control: unsolicited advice, diaper blowouts, weak kegels, dark circles under my eyes, mom-group dynamics, and… oh yeah, the behavior of my children.

Motherhood is—all the things; all the cliches I heard, or perhaps, more accurately, was forced to hear from exuberant mothers who felt that their duty was to properly welcome me into this exclusive club of motherhood. Yes, it has filled me with a love I did not know I was capable of. Yes, it has given me a purpose larger than anything I ever thought possible. Yes, I get weepy watching my kids learn, play, imagine, create, and become budding independent humans. Yes, I fucking love being a member of motherhood.

But fuck, motherhood is—all the things. I struggle with the loss of spontaneity; I miss the impromptu happy hour meetups with my husband that would disappear into a late night filled with laughter, drinks, and recklessly loud sex. I miss sleeping in. I miss sleep. I miss me. Missing me, feels like this dark crevice of motherhood that I was not warned about. Motherhood, for me, has been loving these little beings from my womb with so much of me that I get lost in the fray. I did not always feel lost; in fact, in the beginning of my motherhood journey I was destroying a grad school program, dominating at work, growing my second human, tending to the tiny-tot I had at home, and loving on my husband. I knew who I was—a motherfucking badass.

Of course, life serves up uncertainty. I understand that. I am okay with change. However, I have never been great with life not going according to my Type-A planning. After a year of maternity leave, I was not able to secure a job. My dad’s addiction hit a new low and he walked away from me, from his granddaughters, from us all. Remember how I said that my kids have given me a purpose far beyond anything I thought possible? My purpose is to be the best motherfucking person I can be, which will make me the best motherfucking mom I can be; after all, I am still a badass. So, I found a therapist. And as I reflect back to the weeks where I was anxiously waiting to feel the first kicks of my growing fetus, I wish those exuberant moms, who were (over)sharing would have suggested securing a therapist then, because being an individual is challenging but being a mother is like walking around with a loaded gun— you just never know what will make you go off.

Motherhood is fucking hard. Motherhood is fucking great. Motherhood is—all the things.