Motherhood is Both/And

The use of the phrase “Both/And” has become popular over the last couple of years, especially on therapized social media. It is a way of saying, “Hey, these two statements are both true, regardless of how seemingly opposed they are.” For example: I would both marry Jay Gatsby because he has lived in my head as The Perfect Man since I was sixteen, and realize now at almost thirty that he is a toxic bouquet of red flags disguised as charm and achievement. Both/And. 

As I reflect on my first year of motherhood, I am struck by the absence of Both/And in how we talk honestly about parenting and how we, as a society, expect parents to feel about their own experience.

On January 21, we toasted not only to my son and his birthday but also to me and my journey thus far exploring this version of myself — a version of Kirstin who is both her own person and a mom. I have spent so many of the past twelve months hate-scrolling and jealously watching other moms on social media, convinced that they unlocked some secret to motherhood that was just out of my reach. To me, it seemed like they successfully forgot the bad parts and moved on to where the only parts worth mentioning were the good parts. When the bad parts were actually addressed, it was always with a “but.” Both/And seemed to be in no vocabulary but my own.

Today was so hard, but I love being a mom more than anything

I cried myself to sleep thinking about the woman I used to be, but when she smiled at me the pain was washed away.

I am exhausted and drained, but I wouldn’t trade being his mom for anything.

During pregnancy, postpartum, and the first year of motherhood I survived the most terrifying and painful moments of my life. No one will be surprised to learn that I never want to relive those moments. But, without hesitation, I can both say that I never want to repeat those experiences — pregnancy and postpartum — and that I love my child.  I have been assured that I will forget things like the gut-wrenching terror I felt as I rocked my son to sleep and questioned for the first time if I wanted to be alive. I have been placated by the phrase, “If moms didn’t forget, no one would ever have more than one child! You’ll be fine!” Almost every other parent in my life has confidently promised that in the not so distant future, the good will outweigh the bad. This has been repeated so often for so long that I genuinely believe these parents have blocked out the bad in favor of the good.

You would think it’s a positive thing that parents are able to dim the bad, or painful, memories in favor of the good ones, but is this actually doing more harm than good to parents, and in turn, their children? Perpetuating the myth that parents “forget the hard parts” attenuates the pain, struggles, and subsequent growth that parents experience. For me, it wasn’t just pregnancy or the newborn stage that were “the hard parts.” Simply existing in a world where I was a mother was almost unbearable — breathing became “the hard part.” Looking back at who I was last February, I cannot believe I survived. But I did. And it is not because I forgot the bad parts. It is because I felt myself being ripped apart at the seams and through the process of stitching myself back together, became present in even the hardest moments. This hard-won presence allowed me to move through those moments, rather than just around them. Brick by brick, I built a house up around me in which I am loved and supported, where I have the space to grow.

When people say, “you’ll forget the hard parts,” they fail to appropriately acknowledge the growth and strength that can come from those very hard parts. By using this trite phrase to purportedly comfort parents, what they are actually doing is trivializing the very struggles they are convinced we can just forget. Well, I won’t forget. I choose to honor my struggles and my pain. I choose to remember the reality of those early (and not so early) days of motherhood. If I forget all of that, how will I be able to see how far I have come? How will I continue to learn and grow as a parent, partner, and human if I block out the moments that have taught me the most?

As I reflect on this past year, I see that Both/And is my superpower. It gives me the capacity to show up every day for myself and my family while still choosing to honor my struggles in a way that supports personal growth and learning. My superpower makes it okay that I am both a mom who is filled with ineffable joy when I see my son’s smile and a mom who is occasionally brought to her knees by the pain and weight of motherhood.

P.S. The Great Gatsby is one of the best works of American literature and, yes, this is a hill I will die on, old sport.

Edited by Rae Fagin