Admitting it out loud makes me shudder. As if speaking it into existence makes the hollowness even more real: I am lonely.
It’s one of the many motherhood dichotomies: my heart is the fullest it’s ever been, and I am in constant close bodily contact with another human – yet this is the loneliest I have ever felt.
We all know that it really does take a village to raise a child. But what if you don't have a village – or even a hamlet – to call your own?
I’ve embraced motherhood with such fervour that I have lost a part of myself in the process. I have become distant from my friends, and I have drifted apart from my family, who live far away.
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Before I became a mother, I had visions of lazy mornings spent in cafés with mum friends, and going to baby groups every day. I had no idea how awkward it is to try to make small talk while singing Wheels On The Bus, or how difficult it is to try to drink coffee while wrangling a teething baby.
It feels like the pandemic has sucked out whatever I had left of my social aptitude. Luckily, there’s no time to have a pity party for myself, as I’m too busy perfecting my role as a play facilitator, cleaner, conflict negotiator, chef and nurse.
Having spent all day tending to the needs of tiny humans, I have very little left of myself to give to anyone else. Trying to muster a conversation with my frazzled, sleep-deprived brain feels like too much of a feat most of the time. I wade through a slew of same-y days that melt into weeks and months, and then suddenly realise it’s been a year since I last spoke to that friend I used to go out on weekly lunch dates with in my previous life.
It’s not anyone else’s fault, and I am not resentful of anyone. There is nothing anyone else could have done differently. Even when I try to make an effort to be more sociable, I realise that is no longer who I am, and loneliness is a part of me (for now, at least).
Quite frankly, I feel irrelevant and uninteresting; a hollow shell of myself. I crave to feel seen by someone who is not obligated to do so because of vows we made to each other – or because they are banking on me reading them a bedtime story.
I want someone to call me because they miss my company. I want to feel like someone enjoys having conversations with me (preferably ones that don’t involve chatting about another human’s sleep - or bowel movement routines).
I’ve become comfortable in my solitude. But still, sometimes I wonder how much of me will be left once my children are older and it’s time for me to reclaim more of my own time. Who will I be when this metamorphosis is complete?
Motherhood, in all its transformative beauty, is relentless and lonely. I just wish we talked about it more.
