Mothers have long been iconic figures in stories and myths, and for good reason. It’s not merely their ability to bear children that elevates them; it’s also their traits — boundless compassion, steadfast kindness, and the idealized notion of selflessness. I used to believe that motherhood was both enchanting and daunting because it felt so foreign to me. What transformation would I require to embrace this role fully?
Even when I didn’t envision myself as a parent, it was difficult to dismiss motherhood as the ultimate expression of femininity. Becoming a mother appeared to be a crucial rite of passage, a means to enter the world as evolved, purposeful, and at the very least, prepared. If I were a mother, I would carry more functional items in my purse than just a spoiled piece of fruit. Mothers had necessities like tissues, snacks, and Band-Aids—items meant to care for others. Such motivations had always eluded me.
Mothers possessed qualities I admired, displaying a stability and reliability I felt I lacked. I believed that something must have transformed them into who they were.
It must be in the baby.
Creating a baby meant becoming someone new. Just nine months would allow for a metamorphosis, with hormones, the child, and the womb acting as a cocoon for the woman destined to evolve into a mother. When I decided to conceive, I wasn’t merely bringing a child into the world; I was giving birth to a new version of myself.
I desired the baby and recognized the sacrifices involved, but I genuinely believed in the potential for transformation. I was convinced that motherhood would make me selfless, loving, and kind. I wouldn’t crave whiskey until dawn or seek the company of strangers throughout the night. I would overcome my depression and panic attacks. I could settle down, cease the quest to uncover my flaws, and finally embrace happiness. I would be healed. I would be whole.
Pregnancy filled me with a profound sense of gratitude and purpose. The radiance was palpable. I adored the way others perceived me—men, women, and children alike smiled at me with admiration, viewing me as I had longed to be seen. My selflessness in carrying this child was apparent; it felt like a noble sacrifice of my life and body. It seemed effortless, as my pregnant form embodied everything I aspired to be and everything I felt I had been missing. They recognized the goodness within me that I had never acknowledged.
I assumed that once I held the baby I already adored, I would be transformed. Yes, I would be a different person. Most importantly, I believed I would be liberated from my alcohol obsession. I would be freed from binge drinking and blackouts, the telltale signs of my struggle with alcoholism since I was a teenager.
After all, I could never be a drunken mother. Drunk mothers were careless and self-centered; they didn’t truly exist in the way mothers should. In the days leading up to my daughter’s birth, I often thought, “I’m so relieved that I’ve changed and don’t need to drink anymore.” It was comforting to think I had finally escaped the shadows of alcoholism.
The reality of childbirth and the overwhelming experience of new motherhood swiftly engulfed me. I won’t delve into the well-known trials of sleep deprivation, physical discomfort, or emotional fatigue associated with new parenthood. I expected to be undone in certain ways, albeit I couldn’t have foreseen the multitude of ways it would affect me. I understood all of this was part of the journey.
However, my emotional state was further complicated by postpartum depression, and I was diagnosed with PTSD following a traumatic delivery. I hadn’t even known such a diagnosis existed until my doctor referred me to a specialist in trauma recovery for new mothers.
In the weeks following my daughter’s birth, my drinking gradually escalated. It began with a glass or two of wine here and there, but before long, my need for alcohol grew daily. I recognized exactly what it provided me—an escape from my body, my emotions, and my own mind. It was a way to detach from the relentless hours of new parenthood, where every day felt like an eternity.
I found myself contemplating drinking earlier and earlier in the day. Alone at home with a baby, I realized that no one would notice if I indulged a little. One night, despite my intentions to abstain, I found myself at the corner store buying a bottle of wine. Other evenings, I attempted to limit myself to a single glass but often ended up finishing the bottle. Even if I purchased two or three, it never felt like enough.
Worse than my compulsion was the feeling that I genuinely needed alcohol to unwind at the end of the day. I longed for my daughter to sleep so I could have my time, and felt resentment if she stirred after I had uncorked the bottle. On those nights, I kept my distance from her; her cries barely registered, sounding more like distant sirens—grating and disconnected.
Then, something pivotal occurred that brought me to my breaking point.
One evening, when my daughter was nearly four months old and my husband was working late, I started sipping boxed wine left over from our holiday celebration. A few glasses in, I blacked out. I don’t remember finishing the wine, going to bed, or what transpired in those hours, yet I knew my daughter must have woken up. The next morning, I found her asleep beside me, and I couldn’t recall how she got there. The horrifying possibilities of what could have happened filled me with dread.
That morning, holding my daughter, I was overwhelmed with shame and fear about what might occur if I didn’t take action. Then, I heard a voice so clear and undeniable—it was the first time I accepted a truth I had long avoided: “You’re an alcoholic. Seek help.”
The realization struck me hard. I had always been out of control in various aspects of my life, but for the first time, I recognized that I was not okay. Attempts to manage my drinking, or only indulging on weekends, or taking breaks were futile. If I had any real control, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to blackout while caring for a newborn.
I understood that motherhood would only intensify my addiction. It was the very escape I sought from the monotony and pressure of new parenting. Anxiety and depression were increasingly overwhelming, and my restless mind could no longer be ignored. I could see my path clearly and knew I required help.
After nearly 18 months of sobriety, I have come to accept that motherhood alone couldn’t mend me. Nothing could. For so long, I sought something that would make me feel complete, something that would convince me I was enough. My journey had always revolved around potential—pursuing degrees, jobs, relationships, travel, and yes, even substances. Like the caterpillar in that beloved children’s book, I had consumed so much in search of fulfillment, yet nothing sufficed.
I cherish the metaphor of the caterpillar that keeps eating and consuming until it finally must pause and simply exist. I am now in my own cocoon—warm, safe, and learning to be present. At times, the stillness brings forth old memories and regrets that I prefer to forget.
Within this cocoon, I am surrounded by all that I am—my past, my present, and my future. There remains untapped potential and beauty waiting to be discovered. Motherhood has indeed transformed me, but not in the way I once imagined. It has compelled me to confront my vulnerabilities, my fears, and my reality. Ultimately, it has taught me to love myself genuinely, allowing me to truly love others.
If you’re interested in exploring different paths to parenthood, check out this resource on artificial insemination. For more information on pregnancy and related topics, visit the World Health Organization.
In summary, the journey into motherhood is not a panacea for personal struggles, but rather a profound journey of self-discovery and acceptance.