Other-mothers
On loneliness and community in this moment of motherhood.
I wasn’t going to publish an issue of Cold Coffee this week but I sat down to write* a little note to that effect and it turned into quite a long and vulnerable post.
I’m conscious that some of the things I talk about in this post are happening to my daughter and not to me. As always, I’m treading the line between keeping her personal life (and medical information) private and sharing my own experience of mothering through it, in the hopes it will resonate with another mother.
My family spent much of last summer winding our way towards a diagnosis for my daughter’s rare condition. I wrote last year about the hospital stay that started this whole thing. Between then and now my daughter has had seven blood transfusions.
Just think about that: In the last year, seven different people have donated blood to a total stranger. Seven different people walked into blood donation centres and handed over a piece of their body. Seven different people have changed my daughter’s life — for absolutely nothing in return. To each of those people, I am incredibly grateful.
This week she started a treatment which might put her into remission but which — for my daughter, at least — has some side effects that have made this moment uniquely intense: disrupted sleep, a voracious appetite, and unpredictable meltdowns.
So much of regular, day-to-day mothering (at least in these early years) is rooted in emotional co-regulation. Finding ways to be calm and to pour that calmness into them — often from an empty cup. This new treatment has only amplified the need for that. There’s a special kind of guilt that comes with putting your child through a medical intervention that might not even work, so I am digging deep to be the safe space my daughter needs.
Just as she needs me right now though, I need other people.
We were never meant to mother alone.
Motherhood was always supposed to be a community. Trusted other-mothers have always been an integral part of childrearing, sharing both the wisdom and the physical load of mothering. Historically, those other-mothers would have been the literal village in the phrase: “It takes a village to raise a child.” The women in your immediate surroundings would mother right alongside you: your own mother, your aunts, your sisters, your female in-laws, your friends.
I'm very fortunate to still have a lot of that: My mother provides childcare and emotional support, I have sisters and friends nearby and we give one another advice and love one another’s kids. My daughter's key workers at the nursery are other-mothers too, providing care so that I can work outside the home.
Of course, the internet has expanded that community of other-mothers considerably.
I've been able to take friendships that would have had to unfurl very, very slowly over cups of coffee and weekly baby classes, and phone calls to arrange walks around the park and fast-forward them online. The intimacy of years-long friendships has sprung up quickly in Instagram DMs, niche group chats, and 2 am WhatsApp messages.
I also consider online mum friends part of my other-mother community. Even the ones halfway around the world, the ones I’ll likely never meet IRL, the ones whose children I wouldn’t recognise, but who nonetheless have given me the insight and community that's been foundational to my mothering.
One of my favourite Substackers on motherhood, Violet Carol, put it perfectly: “Becoming a mom in an era when moms are feeling more free to be honest about their experiences of motherhood is one of the greatest privileges I will ever have”
The solidarity of being able to ask: Has this happened for you? Have you felt these same things? Has your kid gone through this phase? Has felt empowering, and the reassurance that others have found their way through these same moments has felt comforting.
Which, I think, is part of why I have found the past few weeks so disconcerting. I have always moved through motherhood feeling connected and seen and understood by the mothers around me. In a lot of ways I still do, of course. Motherhood is ancient and we all have the same fears and joys and unconditional love. I’m not writing this as a slight against my mum friends (who are all wonderful), but as an acknowledgement that I’m mothering through a phase that they haven’t — and that they hopefully never will.
I do have some friends whose children have chronic conditions or other health or medical complications. I’ve even been lucky enough to connect with mothers of children with the same rare condition that my daughter has.
Nonetheless, experiencing motherhood through the lens of medical treatments and hospital waiting rooms does feel lonely. Part of the beauty of motherhood is always having someone by your side. Not just the baby on your chest, the toddler on your hip, the little hand in yours, not just a partner to share some of the load at home, but also all the other-mothers ready to hold you in this moment.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this, other than to say that I want to hold space for anyone else feeling a little alone in their current season of motherhood. I might not have experienced everything you’re going through, but I’d love for you to tell me about it.
*By ‘write’ I mean ‘dictate a draft into my notes app while my daughter is asleep in the back of the car’
Beautifully written. Thank you for sharing this 🤍
I’m so sorry to learn about what you guys have been going through, my friend. ❤️🩹 Sending you an Insta DM now.