It’s shocking, I am sure, to hear a mother place herself above her children. Women have been shifting the tides under the framework of feminism. We are being encouraged to decenter men, our mothers, and anyone else whose beliefs and opinions cause us harm, even when we love them. Still, there remains one exception, children.
Women are expected to be mothers, and mothers are expected to sacrifice, to place our children above all things. Be willing to sacrifice our dreams. Encouraged to put our lives on hold to ensure our children are cared for. They are the priority, even if we must go without. I know this story. I understand it in theory. But I’ve also seen and felt the results firsthand.
Women who send kids off to college and find themselves in an empty home with nothing fulfilling. Women, resentful of the men who get to live with lives unchanged, while we shift our world for the convenience of our family. Women, forced to relearn and adapt to living independently. Yes, these beautiful little humans need us, rely on us for love and safety. We must always care for our babies, but how can we do so if we do not care for ourselves?
I remember a time when my daughter was thriving, while I was secretly crying, trying to keep myself and my family together. The weight loss, terrible skin, inability to get out of bed for anything that wasn’t mandatory, and something when it was. I remember it clearly. Losing myself but still managing to care for everyone else, oblivious to how I lost friends and disconnected from family. I thought it was hidden, but somehow children always know. They are smarter than we adults want to give them credit for. My daughter began to bend herself to accommodate the same ways I did, got quieter, asked for less; we think they cannot see, but we, the parents, the mothers, are so blind.
So caught up in trying to do for our families, we forget ourselves. Carrying weight that makes our shoulders slump, our voices irritable, and our patience thinner, things that seem small but make a big difference in your child’s upbringing. As much as we pretend otherwise, all women know that, at some point, we become our mothers, for better or worse. And this is what makes it important to remember ourselves, too.
My mother was exhausted. A woman who loved her children the best way she knew how. Gave her all for us in ways I am always grateful for. I am my mother’s daughter. Got her fight, got her hustle, her care, her protective spirit, and undeniable kindness, even if it is wrapped in a tough exterior. But I am my mother’s daughter, still learning vulnerability, carrying responsibility, a go-to for those around me. I am thankful that time has allowed her to still be here. To laugh with my siblings about our mother’s softening after having to be hard for so long. My mother deserves that. Days of not having to take care of her children, long vacations, expensive gifts, and love without expectation. And so do I, so do all mothers.
Seeing her beat cancer and living her best life every day since makes me laugh and jealous, but I know how long and how much it took for her to have these moments; the cost of children. I know my mother doesn’t regret us, but I also know that being a mother and trying to be herself was a tall order. She’s carried it well, even if there are a few scars to show for it. And thankfully, she is one of the reasons my sister and I get the opportunity to belong to ourselves. Get to drop off her grandkids to have a weekend of reprieve. My mother is one of the many reasons I love myself before anybody, plus a few mental health breakdowns, divorce, and therapy, but hey, better late than never, right?
So yes, I love myself more than my child, but that version of me is raising a child who comfortably tells me when I hurt her feelings, writes petitions to her school administration to change the girls’ dress code policy, and wants to be a hydrologist and a lawyer. This little girl can tell me when she is overwhelmed and needs her company to leave, is honest to a fault, bold and daring, with boundaries, but above all, she is happy. She is her mother’s daughter, a reflection of me, of my mother, my mother’s mother, and all the lessons we’ve learned and changed along the way. She is because I am, and I am happy. My daughter wants me to be the same way I want my mother to be, needs me to be, the same way I need my mother to be, so we can be mothers, in all our aspirations and dreams, in all of our multi-hyphenated selfish yet selfless glory, because we are our biggest priority. I am my biggest priority. I am the most important thing keeping me alive, healthy, and here.