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When I gave birth to my daughter in October 2018, the realization that the life I was used to would never exist again was immediate. On paper, and by society’s definition, I “had it all together.” In reality, though, I was a 27-year-old, half-way functioning adult just four months removed from my grad program, seven months into a new job and about two months moved into a new apartment. Stability was far from what I felt, but with God’s grace I pulled it all together and was beyond prepared for my baby girl’s arrival.

When she came, the realness of her seven-pound body in my arms made it abundantly clear that half-way functioning was no longer an option. As grown as I thought I was, my child matured me overnight in a way that no other experience will probably ever again. Motherhood meant a shift–in priorities, in recognition of my abilities and in access to me; and this was a shift I, of course, would have to adjust to, but one that would also impact those closest to me. It was also a shift I didn't anticipate, and thus wasn’t fully prepared for.

When I became a mother, I was broken open in the best way. My compassion extended to greater depths. I no longer feared being outwardly empathetic. I embraced vulnerability, and the parts of me that I normally hid because I perceived them to demonstrate weaknesses, became my strengths. I became solid in the most delicate layers of my being, and I’m proud of those beautiful gems that have come out of the sacred work that is being a mother.

But this journey — this process of learning and unlearning as I interrupt and undo vicious familial cycles so as not to perpetuate them in my relationship with my own daughter — has been very isolating. I’ve become that friend who can’t be available at a moments notice for a night out or a drink after work, let alone an impromptu phone call. I’m the friend who is now out of the loop on the latest trends and music because I watch Sesame Street and sing nursery rhymes on repeat. Managing my other duties, especially as a friend, has required intentionality. Yet, it’s still a heart wrenching process that leaves me feeling frustrated, isolated and extremely lonely.

Motherhood is a beautiful thing, don’t get me wrong. I adore my child and love being her mom. My life is so much more abundant because my daughter exists. But I cannot longer fold to this pressure to never speak about the challenges that come with being a new mother so as not to seem ungrateful for my ability to bring forth and nurture a new life. I have begun to find peace and acceptance in the duality of it all. There is beauty and there is pain that comes with being a mom. It is exceptionally beautiful, the process. But it can also be imperfect and very ugly. I wake up to the brightest smile. My daughter’s laugh has healing powers. When she hugs me I find strength buried somewhere deep, somewhere only her pure, beautiful soul can touch. And at the same time, I have discovered that the ugliness of my journey is most rooted in what feels like the loss of my closest friends.

I’ve found myself unable to explain the complexities of my experiences and feelings in a way that my childless friends can understand, and that breeds frustration and maybe even a bit of resentment. It is not always widely understood that motherhood is never something you simply just "adjust to." There is constant learning. There may exist a misconception that I have it "down" or figured out because my daughter is over a year old, but that is far from true. I still feel like a new mom! I'm very much still flustered, and most days it definitely still feels like I'm just going with the flow and trying to figure things out.

When you survive the newborn stage, there is infancy. Then toddlerhood and all these new complexities that will follow us through the school years into adolescence and well beyond the teenage years into adulthood. It's constant readjustment, which means that when my friends think I've got it figured out, and we can work our way back to normalcy, whatever we come to achieve will probably be short-lived as my child brings to me a new set of challenges that take me out of the fold again, as I focus and adjust to the newness of the next stage of my lifetime journey as her mom.

It feels like I'm the constant bearer of bad news when I have to miss that scheduled call, or start an hour later because my child had a hard time getting to sleep. It feels burdensome to be incomplete and unavailable because the balance of work and motherhood and life has left me depleted. I feel I have disappointed them and “I’m sorry” doesn’t feel good enough anymore. I feel like they’ve disappointed me and probably don’t know it because they think they are giving me the space I need when what I need is just them — to listen, to lean on, to laugh with, to sit on the phone for hours at a time in silence; to just be, and to help me feel like myself again.

It feels like we have forgotten how to be friends with each other. There are differences, yes, but they are difficult to navigate. These growing pains don’t seem to end, and when you aren’t prepared for them, the hell they bring has a much feistier wrath, it seems.

I am trying to be comfortable in the solitude, but it is magnified by my status as a transplant in a city that still doesn’t quite feel like home. I find myself in a constant struggle between needing support and wanting space, but ultimately yearning for those close relationships, thus working overtime to maintain them while feeling like everyone around me is just — living. One thing I’ve come to accept about myself is that I truly value my friendships. And it never occurred to me that becoming a mom would interrupt them in such a major way. Navigating it is an uphill process, and I’m trying desperately not to cave in to the sadness and depression that creeps in when I’m feeling forgotten.

There’s no big “aha” moment yet. Writing this is simply cathartic, and it allows me to be vulnerable in the most honest way I’ve always known. I’m not sure what the lesson is here, or if there even is one. Perhaps my point in writing this is just that we need to make more space for young moms to be open about the plethora of emotions that come with taking on the responsibility of parenting without shame or judgment. Wouldn’t that be nice? For now, maybe there’s simply just another young mom out there with a similar experience who will read this and find hope or understanding, and know that she isn’t alone. Please know it. I see you and I validate you.

Radiah Shabazz

Writing since April 2016 · 3 stories contributed