Motherhood (II)

There are some activities that I treasure in this world. One of them, discovered a few years back, was travelling on my own. Not that I don’t enjoy travelling with (a few) others, but going on your own has that level of independence that I cherish, doing everything that you want, being with yourself, or not feeling the third wheel of the carriage, as it happens sometimes while you are travelling with couples. It's probably the only thing that I miss from my old job, and one of the activities that I feel the pandemic has stolen from me. 

I watched The Lost Daughter last week, and it was that kind of film that is felt, remaining in your mind for a longer period of time. It reminded me of how I miss this, and also it made me think of motherhood. It reminded me Marianne Wiggins’ lines and feelings, of my own undisclosed desires, of how I used to (or am using to) organise/think of my life, thinking all the time of that unborn child. Motherhood can be in our blood, part of ourselves from the beginning, as an invisible limb/heartbeat/breathing that we know it is there.

But motherhood can also mean depression. And unthinkable loneliness. Exhaustion. A burden and not a blessing. And again depression that should must be acknowledged, both for your own and your child’s wellbeing. I have always believed that not all of us are meant to be parents, and parenthood should be felt first as part of yourself, and not an unwritten, unbroken law of society/of family.

Up to one point, we are all the same: we all need to feel safe, nobody wants to live in loneliness, everybody needs to cover Marlowe’s basic needs. After those basic needs, we start to become different: some of us don’t want a career and want to bring up children, some of us want a career and don’t want children, some of us want them both. We are doctors, teachers, professors, freelancers, dancers, lovers, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, unemployed, or working 12 hours/day. Some of us cherish our free time, others are workaholics, all of us hate inner pain and try to find ways to make it numb. Being a parent, especially a mother, because it will always be the mother who has at least at first the strongest bond with the child, should be one of the most personal decisions, and not a social/inherited one. The Lost Daughter is about acceptance of grief as part of ourselves, but also of accepting who and what we are, and what we want from life. Before embracing this grief for life, perhaps each one of us should look into the mirror and accept their inner voices, acknowledge them, and answer on their own if to be or not to be a mother.