I Had a Post-Baby Identity Crisis. Here's How I'm Dealing.

My girls, my world.

It sounds cliche to say that motherhood has helped me define myself. But it’s not all the beautiful parts—the unbeatable joy of that first, long-awaited encounter with your baby, the thrill of each milestone, the pure, sweet smiles your little one flashes—that have transformed me most. Those are the expected pleasures that still, somehow, exceed all expectations, but they are not the moments that have forced me to discern—to decide—who I am. It’s the tough stuff, the sacrifices, that has brought my true self bubbling to the surface, ugliness and all.

I was never one of those girls who fantasized about her future family, able to name her eventual progeny when they were only a distant hope. Having children seemed like an inevitability—a beautiful, blurry thing that would someday happen—but my most defined goals centered around my career. I spent much of my childhood cycling through professions—I created brochures for imagined businesses (a luxury pet resort was a frequent one), taught my stuffed-animal students, and designed mock magazine covers. As I entered adulthood, I never bothered to reconcile my aspirations with my certainty that I would stay home once I had children, probably partly because my mother had, but also because I couldn’t fathom any other arrangement. I knew I would want to be with my babies. I guess I figured it would just sort of work itself out. 

I remember feeling something akin to panic my first few weeks on the couch, those hazy days after giving birth to my oldest. I wasn’t depressed—I was adrift. I’d been working, near constantly, since I was 14, and suddenly I was doing what felt dangerously close to nothing: watching Parenthood, and The Bachelor, and when I was desperate, music videos (yes, they still exist). The tightness in my chest was an unpredictable companion, striking at random, probably due to some combination of hormonal chaos, uncertainty about my future, and the realization that my heart was now outside my body, in this tiny, six-pound person. 

Although my anxiety faded, my ambition did not. When my daughter was five months old, I dutifully hired a nanny, determined to make the gesture of going back to work, when in reality, I dreaded the separation. But then Asa unraveled on day one—unconsolable and unwilling to take a bottle, filled with my carefully pumped, dated, and frozen milk—and I felt myself crumbling. So I apologetically sent the nanny home and decided Asa and I would do this thing on our own. Throughout her infancy, I nursed her while I interviewed my sources, or drove around beforehand, praying she would drift off in her carseat (and stay that way once we got home). Although I wasn’t advancing in my career anymore, I was at least still in the game.

Looking back, I realize that Baby Number One is deceptively uncomplicated. Sure, there’s the learning curve of packing a diaper bag, grocery shopping with a fussy infant, or coping with the boredom of entertaining a person who can’t speak. But, for the most part, my life was a slightly amended version of my childless one—I lost the baby weight quickly (and found it surprisingly easy to be kind toward my altered body), freelance assignments still regularly appeared in my inbox, international travel was manageable, and I generally found my daughter to be a welcome buddy and thrift-store shopping companion. 

Then came baby number two.

I thought I was prepared—I knew I’d get the shakes during my C-section. I could latch a baby to my breast in the dark. I knew that, because my first child has never been much of a napper, I probably couldn’t bank on my second sleeping much during daylight hours—and that trying to wrangle a toddler and an infant would only intensify the struggle I’d felt as a working stay-at-home mom with my first: that I was never a great employee or a great mother. So I worked until my final month of pregnancy, but ultimately decided it was time to step back—to stop clinging to whatever shreds of my career remained. I was going into full-blown mommy mode.

I wish someone had told me that these first months as a mother of two would be like a second adolescence. Although the logistical transition has been relatively easy—my youngest is a good sleeper with a sweet, easygoing temperament—the emotional adjustment has been more trying. I’ve often felt insecure, desperate for friends in a place I don’t much like (I got pregnant immediately after moving to Texas), and like I’m trying to figure out who, exactly, I am, all while wishing my stomach was a little flatter, my hair something other than a disobedient mess. All the things I thought I’d moved past have resurfaced, the emotional version of adult acne. I recently unearthed some journals from my early teen years, and my entries sound remarkably similar to my recent venting sessions with my husband. My 14-year-old self wondered if anyone liked me, recorded self-conscious details—my height, my grades—and repeatedly detailed my efforts toward six-pack abs. Apparently, the intervening years did little more than bury those old teenage insecurities. 

For the first time in years, I feel vulnerable—stripped of the things that made me who I was in my mid-20s, a time when I was beginning to feel I had figured it all out. I no longer wear my success like a protective cloak. No one bothers to ask me, “What do you do?” anymore. Instead, I’m asked what my husband does. The accomplishments I was once so proud of have faded into mere backstory—details of my past, like the name of my first boyfriend or the town where I grew up—that few people care to know about. My identity has contracted to dreaded wife of/mother of status.

As hard as this has been, it’s also forced me to figure out who I really am—to evaluate what brings me joy, to refine the faults that motherhood has brought into sharp relief, to choose to love myself even when I have a hard time feeling worthy. I’ve connected with an inner world that thrives on thinking and contemplating and learning. I’ve rediscovered my love of baking. I’ve become more organized—a feat that may seem unremarkable, unless you’re one of my former colleagues who knows how messy my office often was. I’ve learned that having a couple close friends is, for me, far better than lots of occasional acquaintances. I’ve revisited long-forgotten elementary-school topics—planets, cloud formations, volcanoes—and, in the process, educated myself as much as my preschooler. I’ve realized, finally, that my faith is the most important definer of who I am. 

It’s true, my world has shrunk—I spend most of my time doing the same things, with the same people (most of whom stand about three feet tall). I recently logged the details of my day on my phone, and it went something like this: woke up, did my Bible study, fed my toddler breakfast, nursed the baby, put baby back down, crafted with my toddler, started prepping dinner, got the kids dressed, did laundry, served lunch, took toddler to dentist, nursed baby, emailed a radio station to decline an interview (I can no longer speak intelligibly about the proposed topic, romantic rejection, except to say, “Enjoy the alone time while you can”), nursed baby, made dinner, mowed the grass, bathed my children, nursed baby, and finally, watched a little Netflix. 

These days, self-care amounts to prayer and exercise, which I manage at mostly regular intervals, but things I used to love—walks in the woods, weekend trips, massages—have become Mother’s Day gifts, rather than regular parts of life. Through it all, my self-awareness has still, somehow, grown. I’ve been stripped of the things I thought mattered most, and discovered that life is so much bigger than that one measure of success, even if the only success I have some days is finishing a load of laundry. I don’t know, still, what my very distant future holds, but I can confidently say that those baby smiles and little-girl I Love You's, whispered throughout the day without prompting or expectation, are enough to make me certain it’s all been worth it.