Before I had my daughter, I thought motherhood was an addition. You add a baby to your life, like a new wing onto a house. You still have the old rooms—your career, your marriage, your ability to finish a cup of coffee—they just have a new hallway connecting them.
Since I don't know your specific story or angle, I have drafted a sample personal essay in the signature Mutha voice: honest, visceral, and unromanticized. I've credited it to . Title: The Liquidation of Self: What No One Tells You About the First Year
I was wrong. Motherhood isn’t an addition. It’s a liquidation.
The first time I sat on the bathroom floor at 3 AM, holding a screaming infant who refused to latch, with my own t-shirt soaked in breastmilk and tears, I had a terrifying thought: I don't exist anymore. I am just a set of hands that changes diapers.
And I am slowly, painstakingly, buying back a few pieces of my old furniture. I read one chapter of a book last week. I wore jeans with a zipper for three hours. It felt like armor.