Mothers often hold a legendary status in stories and folklore, and for good reason. It’s not merely the ability to give life that elevates them; it’s the myriad qualities they embody—boundless compassion, steadfast kindness, and an almost mythical selflessness. I found the concept of motherhood both alluring and daunting, as it felt so distant from who I was. What transformation would be necessary for me to become this type of woman?
Even when I didn’t desire children, I struggled to dismiss motherhood as the ultimate expression of femininity. It seemed like an essential milestone, a way to evolve and prepare for life. If I were a mother, my purse would be filled with useful items beyond just a crumpled snack. Mothers carried essentials like tissues, crackers, and Band-Aids, which were meant to nurture others—something I had never fully grasped.
Mothers appeared stable and reliable in a way I hadn’t achieved. I believed something must have contributed to their strength. Perhaps it was in the baby. Carrying a child would allow me to reinvent myself. With nine months of anticipation, I imagined that hormones and the experience of pregnancy would cocoon me into a new version of myself—a mother.
I wanted my child and was aware of the sacrifices involved, but I genuinely believed in this transformation. I envisioned that becoming a mother would make me selfless, loving, and kind. I wouldn’t crave whiskey at dawn or spend nights with strangers. I thought I would overcome my depression, cease my panic attacks, and find contentment without the need to travel or escape. I would be happy. I would be fixed.
Pregnancy brought me a profound sense of gratitude and purpose. I felt radiant. The admiration from others—men, women, and children alike—filled me with joy. They saw me as selfless, making sacrifices for this child. In my pregnant state, I felt I had become everything I desired to be, everything I believed I lacked. I assumed that once I held my beloved baby, I would be transformed. Most importantly, I believed I would be liberated from my long-standing battle with alcohol.
In my mind, I could never be a “drunk mom.” Such women were reckless and selfish—they didn’t embody true motherhood. I recall feeling relieved in the weeks leading up to my daughter’s birth, convinced I had changed and no longer needed alcohol.
But the harsh reality of new motherhood was a whirlwind of emotions, and I faced unexpected challenges. I don’t aim to recount the well-known struggles of sleep deprivation or physical pain; I knew those would be part of the experience. Nevertheless, I was also grappling with postpartum depression and was diagnosed with PTSD following a traumatic birth. My doctor referred me to a specialist, but the emotional toll was heavy.
Initially, my drinking resumed gradually—a glass or two of wine on certain nights. However, my cravings intensified as the weeks passed. I recognized the escape that alcohol provided, allowing me to distance myself from my feelings and the relentless cycle of new motherhood. I began contemplating drinking earlier in the day. Alone at home with my baby, the thought crossed my mind that no one would notice if I poured myself a few glasses. One night, despite promising myself I wouldn’t drink, I found myself at the local store buying a bottle of wine. On other occasions, I attempted to limit myself but always ended up finishing the entire bottle.
What troubled me even more than my cravings was my growing need for alcohol to unwind at the end of the day. I longed for my daughter to sleep so I could have my time, growing resentful if she stirred after I had uncorked my bottle. I maintained a cold distance from her during those nights; her cries felt muffled and distant, like background noise I could ignore.
Then one fateful night, everything changed. My daughter was nearly four months old, and my husband was working late. I opened a box of leftover wine from a holiday gathering. A few glasses turned into a blackout. I don’t recall how I got into bed with my daughter or if I tended to her needs that night. When I woke up to find her beside me, panic surged through me as I imagined the worst.
The shame and fear of what could have happened were overwhelming. Then, a voice within me broke through the chaos: “You’re an alcoholic. Get help.” I had never accepted that reality until that moment. I realized that no amount of control over my drinking would suffice. Motherhood would not cure my addiction; it would only heighten it.
After nearly 18 months of sobriety, I’ve come to understand that motherhood cannot fix my internal struggles. Nothing can. For too long, I sought external solutions—degrees, jobs, adventures, and yes, alcohol. Like the caterpillar that consumes everything around it before entering a cocoon, I realized I needed to come to a standstill.
Now, I find myself in a cocoon of sorts, learning to be present with all parts of myself—my past, my regrets, and my hopes for the future. Motherhood has revealed my vulnerabilities and fears, but it has also taught me how to truly love myself. Only then am I capable of loving others.
Motherhood has not been the cure-all I once envisioned; rather, it has been a journey of self-discovery and acceptance.
For further insights on home insemination and pregnancy, check out March of Dimes, a great resource for expectant mothers. And for those interested in the self-insemination process, you can find valuable information at Make a Mom.
Summary
The author reflects on her misguided belief that motherhood would resolve her struggles with addiction. Despite her hopes of transformation, she faced the reality of postpartum challenges and her unresolved issues with alcohol. Through her journey, she discovered that motherhood did not provide the cure she sought, but rather forced her to confront her vulnerabilities and learn self-love.
Keyphrase: motherhood and addiction recovery
Tags: [“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]