I type this in between gaps in time as I rock one twin in their bouncer and incite laughter in the other and in this moment I realise there’s nothing ‘just’ about motherhood.

There’s nothing just about 2am breastfeeding sessions and powerful letdowns, the first walk after my c-section or the heaviness that sits in the depths of holding the mental load. There’s nothing just about being a caretaker, organiser, nurturer, life giver.

‘Just’.

Based on the second definition of just, I am exactly, entirely and completely a mother. When I first read this definition, it felt enlightening — beautiful almost. To have your entire being re-defined and reshaped, like clay being sculpted and made into something new. When I read the definition now, it feels suffocating.

Not many things can grasp just how all-encompassing motherhood is, and to an extent, how suffocating this can be at times. To be “all” of something to someone means for seconds and minutes and hours and days, my mere being exists solely within the maternal, making it easy to forget where “mummy” ends and I begin. That before I was “mummy,” I was me.

And don’t get me wrong, I love being a mum (and I hate that I have to clarify that as if disliking parts of motherhood makes me a bad mother). I love watching these tiny humans that I spent 9 months growing become their own people, with their own voices and smiles that reach their eyes. I love the static electricity that courses through me, connecting our souls as our hands interlink. I love their laughter. I love loving them.

I don’t love early mornings that come after a hard night of waking and stirring and barely sleeping. I don’t love the guilt that lives at the base of my stomach whenever I feel not enough. I don’t love the mental load and the “when did they wake from their nap and what should we do for the day and i need to book their doctor’s appointment and their birthday is coming soon i need to shop for that and…” breathe.

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It’s easy to lose yourself in this part of motherhood.

The part of motherhood that asks you to pour and pour until all that remains for you are mere droplets, and I know this because it happened/is happening to me. It started off with “I’ll shower tomorrow,” and became “when was the last time I did my skincare or read a book?” I sometimes look in the mirror and while I recognise the shape of her face and the lines by her eyes, I don’t always recognise her. Me.

The person staring back at me — with a puke stained shirt and engorged breast that somehow seems to leak through her breast pads — seems far away from the person I know her to be. And yet, I feel for her. The woman who is giving every inch of herself even when there is nothing left to give.

I grew a child and shrunk myself. One might say that this is everything to do with duty and obligation. I say it’s everything to do with love and loss and patience and grief and an infinite number of words and feelings that often can’t be expressed with ease.

There is an ache that exists deep within me. a calling towards the me I was before I became needed. Before I became mother, maternal, matriarch. This ache isn’t always loud, but a tap on my shoulder or a tightness in my gut. And when I feel it, I hate the guilt that comes with it. The guilt that says in wanting to discover the parts of me that have been buried at the back of my mind that I am choosing to be less of a mother. In taking away the just, a part of my maternal is stripped away.

And yet, while I used to sit with this turmoil — this ache between existing and searching, living and longing — I now say fuck it. It doesn’t feel just that as women — as mothers — we have to choose when they don’t have to. Fathers seldom face the dilemma of losing themselves in parenthood or retaining their identity. The phrase “behind every successful man is a woman” always got to me for this reason, because in so many instances, behind a successful woman is often their own shadow.

I’ve not admitted out loud that I want to be on television in some capacity one day. And become an author. And a model. A creator. A speaker. I want to be all of these things on top of being a mother. There, i’ve said it. In a world where mothers are told to choose, I want it all. And here is how I’m going to do it:

1. First of all, I’m putting my middle finger up to the guilt of pursuit and allowing myself to chase the life I want to live.

2. I’m doing one thing for me each day. It doesn’t have to be anything big or grandiose, but it has to be for me.

3. Saying no a lot more (because setting boundaries is sexy).

4. Trying to go outside once a day, even when the depression makes my bones feel stiff and unmoving.

5. I wish I could write ‘to get more sleep’, but as a mother to a highly attuned and energetic four year old as well as two newborn-ish twins, it seems as if sleep deprivation is currently part of the package. So instead, I want to rest more without feeling like I have to earn it. And when I say rest, I don’t mean in the doomscrolling-on-the-bed type of rest (because I always leave more anxious and unsettled after one of those sessions), but in the quieten-the-mind type of way.

6. Lastly, and this is the most important one: in a world where we are afraid to be seen trying, I am choosing to let rejection and embarrassment win. Fuck the fear.

In choosing motherhood, I’ve decided that I’m also choosing me. At the end of the day, no one can pour from an empty cup, and as much as we like to call mothers superhuman, we’re not. We deserve to put ourselves first too, so let’s start there.

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I woke up with her sitting on my chest.

She does this a lot. She calls it her “morning surprise.” Though it’s not much of a surprise if you expect it.

It’s a funny feeling you know — struggling to breathe. This act that has always felt so natural, so reflexive, suddenly becomes the one thing you forget how to do. As if all logic and memory cease to exist the moment you get a knock on the door from … her.

Inhale - exhale - inhale - exhale. 

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I tried today. I really did. But fighting her sometimes feels like demanding too much of my mental and physical being, so sometimes i just 

give.

I guess I could lie in bed for five more minutes. Or ten.

I think of my life before I met her — before she met me. A vision of a carefree child swims in my memory. She walks with a sense of serenity that can only be achieved when the destruction of the world — of them — hasn’t quite touched tainted you yet.

I hate this. I hate her.

I hear him before I see him. His steady, heavy steps are easily distinguishable from the erratic patter of my four-year-old’s feet.

‘It’s not a good morning is it?’ he asks as he cocks his head to the side. I wonder if he can see her. 

I try to answer, but she’s got a grasp on my throat. No words escape. I try to scream. Still, no sound. Then it happens.

He tries to wipe them before I feel them escape my eyes. A waterfall of pain and emotions I had carefully locked at the back of my mind, ready to be felt at a more convenient time. 

Fuck. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. I hate —

‘Breathe, breathe, I’m here, you’re safe. Can you feel me? Hey, it’s okay.’ he whispered with a lull of comfort and reassurance — a pull back to the present world and away from her. I begin to apologise for my existence, but he stops me before I get the chance. 

That’s the thing with Anxiety. She catastrophises. And then she capitalises. Capitalises on the fear, on the hurt, on the pain, on the what if’s. She pushes and pulls me towards the edge of whatever hell I have conjured up in my mind until she feels in control. Until I lose control.

But I won’t let her win. I can’t. Not just for me, but for —

‘Mama! I’m — coming — to — find — you!’ she chirps from the bottom of the stairs, her little voice broken up by breathless hops on each step.

Inhale - exhale - inhale - exhale. 

I can do this, I remind myself. I will do this. 

It sometimes feels easier to let her win, to not have to think of how I'll get out of it this time. But deep down I know it’s not really easier. It’s just hiding. 

And I'm tired of hiding.

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Motherhood didn’t swallow me. The world did. You see, we hear people say it all the time — that being a mum is hard. But what if it’s not inherently motherhood itself that is so hard, but instead the systems and beliefs built around it that make it that way?

The myth of Motherhood

I remember crying to my husband while breastfeeding my daughter. And not the soft, subtle cry that’s released from a flicker of sadness but an unconscious, gut-wrenching, soul reaching cry that I felt in the depths of my being. ‘They said breastfeeding would come naturally, so why does this feel so hard?’

Recently, Chappell Roan has caused an uproar, especially among mothers, when she said ‘I actually don’t know anyone who is happy and has children’ in response to how she feels her life differs from her friends back home in the small conservative town of Willard, Missouri. And in scrolling through the comments of a TikTok snippet of the interaction, one thing was common amongst the mothers that shared their opinion on the matter:

The problem isn’t motherhood, and nor is the problem our kids. Maybe… just maybe, the thing that actually makes motherhood hard — the real problem — is the system built around it. Built to isolate. Built to ignore the labour. Built to praise our sacrifices while offering no support in return. Built for them, and not us.

You’re not broken. The system is

There are more voluntarily childless people now than there have been before. And that’s not to say people don’t want kids, but it seems there is a growing understanding of what it means to have a child in our society now more than ever.

When I asked mothers on Instagram what makes motherhood hard, majority of answers focused on five things:

1. What the hell happened to childcare?

2. Where is this “village” everyone speaks of?

3. Does anyone even care about my mental health?

4. What even is paternal leave?

5. Why does society care so little for kids?

And the more I searched, questioned and pondered on these answers, the more I realised that beneath Chappell Roan’s oblivious observation of motherhood is a broken structure. One that isn’t simply working against mothers, but is quietly eroding the joy of motherhood by making it nearly impossible to thrive within it.

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The childcare crisis and loss of the village

Childcare in the UK is a crisis disguised as a personal problem. What people don’t see is that with net costs eating up 19% of the average wage, it’s no wonder we’re stuck in this cycle of impossible choices — reduce our hours, give up our careers, or work just to spend large chunks of that sum for someone to watch your children. The math isn’t mathing, and the system isn’t serving us.

Statutory maternity leave barely gets us through nine months, and yet formal education doesn’t begin until age five. That’s a gap of years. Years where mothers are expected to cope, create income, and somehow still be present for their children without sustainable support. I haven’t always found childcare accessible, and like so many mothers, I’ve often found myself torn between needing space to work, rest, or just be, and having no one to fill in the gaps.

The truth is, there’s no village anymore. And that’s where the real cost lies.

I heard about it incessantly when I was pregnant with my daughter. ‘It takes a village’, ‘find your village’, ‘where is your village?’ This magical village — spoken about like a rite of passage — seemed a crucial part of motherhood. Nobody mentioned that this so called “village” — the community, family, friends, neighbours and teachers who take part in your child’s development — wouldn’t just automatically appear upon entering motherhood.

And it’s not that I was completely alone. But so much of new motherhood that can feel isolating. And it’s not that I was completely alone. But so much of new motherhood can feel isolating. I remember the quiet ache beneath the expectation that I’d suddenly be embraced by a band of women and mothers, arms open, ready to share in the joys and struggles of this season. As if they’d just show up at my door in some kind of movie-worthy “I’ve been waiting for you” moment. But that wasn’t my reality.

I hate to compare, but it’s hard not to when I look at how Western society treats mothers compared to many Eastern and African cultures. In countries like Japan, Mexico, Nigeria, and across South America, there are longstanding postpartum rituals that honour the physical and emotional transformation of becoming a mother.

These practices often include warm meals, massages, herbal baths, and intentional rest — provided by close female relatives, community members, or hired postnatal helpers — while the mother is expected to heal, feed, and bond with her baby.

In Nigeria, omugwo is the name of the Igbo cultural practice of postpartum care given to the new mother and baby by her mother or elder female relatives. In Mexico, a “closing of the bones” ceremony helps to emotionally and physically close the woman’s body after the extreme opening of birth.

But here in the UK, there is no collective ritual. No cultural script that honours what we’ve just been through. And although I was fortunate to have some support, it’s no surprise that 1 in 5 women experiences mental health challenges during pregnancy or within the first year postpartum — yet access to proper care remains patchy at best.

I mean, do we really care about mental health?

We say we care. We ask mothers, ‘How are you really feeling?’ But the moment they answer with anything less than glowing praise for every stage of new motherhood, we hit them with: ‘Didn’t you ask for this?’, ‘Don’t you love your kids?’

As if two things can’t exist at once.

We master the art of the perfect ‘I’m fine’ — the one that carries just enough calm and serenity, with a touch of exhaustion subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone who isn’t maternal themselves. We ignore the statistics that tell us the perinatal period is one of the most vulnerable times in a woman’s life. We ignore the truth that motherhood cracks you open. That you are physically, emotionally, and mentally remade — like a caterpillar emerging from its cocoon, born anew and unfamiliar, unsure of your wings.

And still… no one really gives a fuck about how mothers actually feel. And what’s worse is that this disregard isn’t just reserved for mothers anymore — it’s spilling over, seeping into how we treat the most innocent group of all: children.

When did it become cool to hate kids?

We’ve become a culture increasingly intolerant of children. Crying babies on planes. Toddlers having meltdowns in cafés. School-age kids asking one too many questions. All met with sighs, side-eyes, and the kind of exaggerated eye-rolls that scream, ‘Can’t you control your child?’

It’s as if we’ve forgotten that children aren’t miniature adults — they are humans becoming. Learning how to regulate, express, and exist in a world that often gives them no room to do so. And what’s more maddening is that the judgment isn’t just reserved for the kids. It stretches toward the people raising them too — mothers especially. Be perfect. Be patient. Don’t complain. Don’t take up space. And heaven forbid your child dares to take up any either.

I’ve felt it. That familiar anxiety when I walk into a café with my daughter. The way I scan the room, assessing the vibe, the clientele, the noise level — calculating whether this space might tolerate a small child being… a small child. Whether we’ll be met with understanding or thinly veiled disdain. Whether I’ll get to enjoy my coffee or spend the whole time worrying about apologising for simply existing.

It’s this quiet cultural undercurrent — this unspoken entitlement to a childfree world — that slowly pushes mothers to the margins. Not just out of restaurants, but out of community spaces, out of conversations, out of the workforce, out of visibility. And what does it say about our society when the people bringing up the next generation are the most unsupported, the most invisible, the most judged?

We say motherhood is hard, but what we really mean is that we’ve made it hard. Through broken systems, eroded villages, unaffordable childcare, mental health stigma, and a growing disdain for children themselves.

Motherhood is not the problem. The problem is a world that demands everything from mothers and gives so little back. A world that praises resilience while providing no rest. That celebrates children in theory, but not in practice.

And maybe — if we’re bold enough to admit that — we can start rebuilding a world where mothers are supported, children are welcomed, and care is not a burden, but a shared responsibility. Because maybe the problem isn’t motherhood but becoming a mother in a world that refuses to care.

At the end of the day, it was never the babies crying that made it hard. It was the silence in response.

One day you wake up and realise that you can’t heal in the environment that broke you. You can’t keep shrinking yourself to stay connected to people who only knew how to love the version of you that was hurting. The version of you that wasn’t really you.

Sometimes, healing looks like distance.

Sometimes, it looks like silence.

And sometimes it looks like gut-wrenching, core-shaking tears under the safety of your bed covers as you realise that healing also might mean cutting off the people who benefitted from your pain — even when that pain looked like loyalty, or love, or obedience.

That might mean letting go of the parent who is so stuck in their ways, so absorbed in their needs that they don’t realise how many pieces of yourself you’ve had to gather just to be in the same room as them. They don’t see how you handed over your peace in exchange for crumbs of approval. Crumbs of love.

That might mean releasing the friend who preferred — needed — the unhealed, people-pleasing version of you because your boundaries now make them uncomfortable. Because they chose not to see your growth. They liked you better when you were smaller, quieter, more convenient.

So yes, sometimes healing is lonely. But you do it anyway, because at least now, you’re not who they wanted you to be. You’re becoming who you are.

And this version of you? You’re not afraid to take up space. You don’t apologise for outgrowing what was never meant to contain you. You walk differently. Talk differently. Love yourself out loud. And that — that is power.

So yes, sometimes healing is lonely. But so was living your whole life for everyone but yourself. At least now, you’re finally choosing you.

I’m still afraid – no, ashamed – to admit that a part of me, larger than I wish to acknowledge, never truly believed I was beautiful. Because so much of my childhood was spent seeing, hearing, and believing that dark-skinned women aren’t ever really enough.

Whenever someone complimented me, that inner voice would wake up, whispering reminders of the aunties who encouraged skin bleaching, or the relative who mused that relaxed hair was “more palatable” than natural curls and coils. As if we exist to be digested—tongue swirling, finger-licking, appetising.

Palatable.

I remember spending over five hours braiding my hair electric blue. Something about that colour lit me up—like electricity had replaced the blood in my veins, sparking a new sense of what it means to style myself for me. I felt free. I felt like myself.

So I stepped into the kitchen, hoping to be seen. Hoping to hear what any child longs for: “You look amazing.” Instead, I was warned that these people (meaning the people in our predominantly white neighbourhood) wouldn’t accept me with hair like that. And I knew that belief came from a place of protection. A defence mechanism, forged from years of surviving in a world that made us feel like we had to blend in to survive. But I was just a girl. And what that girl heard was: Shrink yourself.

So I did.
For a while.

I used to hate my skin.

Whenever someone complimented me, I’d deflect. Diminish. Finding a way to reduce their statement and in turn reduce myself. I’d s t r e t c h their kind words into a string of unconscious ramblings— “I look a mess... you’re just saying that... but god, you’re so beautiful.” Anything to turn the spotlight away from
me.

They’d say I was ‘humble’, but really, I'd simply mastered the art of self depreciation. My tongue became a brush, and self-hate was my chosen medium. It felt easier to belittle myself than to confront my own power—my strength, my beauty.

And I know it stems from childhood. From a constant feeling of never being quite “enough.” From seeing more self-loathing than self-love. From being pushed to shrink, adjust, and dilute my identity to make others comfortable. But also? From the way women are taught to mute themselves — to exist in the shadows devoid of identity or opinion. To be “modest,” “meek,” “agreeable” because who wants a confident woman who knows who she is? 

So yes, I used to hate my skin.

Until I didn't. 

There wasn’t a dramatic moment of enlightenment. No bright light from the heavens, no sudden awakening. I just remember one day looking in the mirror and thinking: I don’t want to hate myself anymore. I began talking to my reflection like a friend. Gentle strokes. Soothing words. Affirming. Igniting. Inspiring. And slowly, the hate melted. I accepted my skin. Then I began to enjoy it. And now?

I love it (most of the time). I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I don’t always feel at home in my skin. There are still days I wish I could borrow a kind of ease — one stitched into lighter skin, one that doesn’t have to scan the aisle for plasters that blend in, or rehearse polite ways to say “please don’t touch my hair.” Some days, the weight is quiet but present. The kind of tired that comes from being seen too much and understood too little. The longing to just be—unbothered, unprodded—lingers. But it’s never hate. Not anymore. And that to me is freedom.

Black is strength. Black is the resilience to keep showing up, even when the world doesn’t make room for you. Black is beauty. The kind that doesn’t shrink, even when it’s not always reflected back to you. Black is community. The strength in knowing you are never alone in this—our stories, our struggles, and our triumphs are all intertwined. Black is power. The power to take up space, to be unapologetically yourself, even when society tries to make you small.

I wish I could tell 14 year old me to stop searching ‘how to lighten my skin’ and instead search ‘colours that pop on dark skin’ because I was never meant to be small. I was never born to shrink. And neither are you.

So I’ll end by this by saying what I didn’t want to tell myself as I looked through my camera roll and paused on this picture:

I’m beautiful, and this is a fucking good picture.