Honoring the Milestones through a Mother’s Grief and Joy

September is here, and during the last few weeks, many of us rushed to Target, buying school supplies and clean sneakers for our children’s upcoming school year. Some of us sent our toddlers to daycare for the first time, while others nervously prepared for the first day of high school and beyond.  

A boy walking with a backpack on his back. He is wearing a shirt and shorts in continuous line drawing style. 

It’s the time of year when many of us shifted from summer mode into a new calendar year of a faster life pace: work schedules, pick-up schedules, sports and events schedules, Meet the Teacher night, and on and on. In some ways, back-to-school shopping has become a rite of passage in our consumerist modern culture symbolizing a significant life change for both parents and children. 

For me, this season also brings a personal milestone to contend with as my oldest child just turned six and is headed off to first grade. It feels relieving that he is not transitioning to an entirely new school again, and it’s both heart-warming and daunting to watch him grow into a boy with his own “BFFs,” homework and new books to read, and a new soccer team. 

This time of year, also marks my sixth year of mothering which also feels dizzying. The baby and toddler years felt so demanding and slow to me in many ways–yet here I am wondering how my chubby, rambunctious toddler has transformed so quickly into a little boy eager for independence so quickly. 

As a mother, I often balked in those early years at well-meaning comments of, “Enjoy it while it lasts!” To me, there wasn’t a lot to enjoy in caring for two small children home alone most of the day. But now just six years in, I find myself wanting to say the same things to other new mothers. Savor the past-bedtime cuddles, the magical kiss that instantly heals boo-boos, the safety you created in allowing your child to share their very big feelings. 

Motherhood is a mix of joy and grief—grieving the moments that pass too quickly while celebrating the milestones yet to come. With each birthday, each school open house, I feel the heartbreak of watching my children grow up and step into the world without me by their side. I can’t be there on the playground when they fall from the monkey bars or when a friend says something hurtful at lunch. 

To be a mother is to hold this grief, which exists alongside our joy and excitement watching our children change and grow. With our ever-widening hearts, we continue to offer encouragement and teach resilience to our children as they gradually navigate the world more and more on their own. Birthday candles are the reminders of this paradox. Back to school shopping is a reminder of this paradox. Watching freshmen students waving goodbye to their parents reminds us of this paradox. 

A mother sitting on the floor hugging her toddler age son standing next to her in continuous line art drawing style.

And while so many mothers I talk to acknowledge similar sentiments, so much of the physical, psychological, emotional, and spiritual aspects of mothering are hardly discussed in the dominant culture. Social media tends to overly romanticize mothering, uses sarcasm or “mommy-wine-culture” to cope with the demands of mothering, offers “mom hacks” to handle the logistics of modern mothering, or just largely ignores us entirely. 

Recently, in a podcast episode by Kimberly Ann Johnson, I listened to April Tierney read her poem from her book Matter / Mother about her birthing experience. The poem describes childbirth as an animalistic experience in ways that I have always felt but hard trouble articulating. Giving birth to my children was a primal, animalistic experience that significantly changed me as a woman and an individual. My mothering has always felt physical and primal. When my firstborn was bullied on the school bus, my instinct to protect him was immediate and fierce. Stories of mothers lifting cars off their children don’t surprise me—I understand that primal urge. 

Perhaps that’s why the passing of time feels in some ways like a physical breaking of my heart. Because as my children grow and become more independent, and frankly, are really active boys who are constantly moving, there are less snuggles, less bodily connection. I have no baby growing in my womb. I have no baby breastfeeding on me. While this newfound bodily autonomy is liberating in some ways, it also leaves me reflecting on what it means to mother in this new phase.  

 When my oldest was born, right before my husband went to cut the umbilical cord, I looked into his face and whispered to him something to the effect of “you are your own person now,” as we would no longer be as physically connected via the cord as we once were. And I recall this moment now, with a birthday, with a new school year, of wanting to hold his round cheeks into my palms and acknowledge him as his own person, in need of my guidance but certainly nothing I could mold to my own desires even if I wanted to. I can only imagine the mothers sorting through college applications anticipating their soon-to-be empty nest. 

 This act of mothering—bearing the heartache while embracing the beauty, navigating the ebbs and flows of connection and independence—is universal. And yet these experiences, these stories, are so hard to find. Long ago, we might have shared these stories around fires, but modern life makes it difficult to find any breathing room for ourselves or socializing. But these sharing of experiences is the fortification we need as mothers as we continue the daily labor of loving and caring for our children. 

A mother hugging her little baby in continuous line style. 

 I am bored with motherhood focusing on hacks; we cannot, nor should we, hack our way out of human and embodied emotions. I’m exhausted by the tips and tricks of making this easier to place all responsibility on the individual mother rather than the wider culture and community. I’m drained by the shallow nature of mothers portrayed in the media, and frankly, by the superficial nature of so much of modern life that fails us, our children, or the place we want to offer them.  

 My mothering is embodied. It’s filled with rage and grief and laughter and weeping beauty. It’s inundated with a long list of daily tasks and demands, especially around this time of year. I long for more time and space and freedom to dig deeper into how this has changed me and is constantly changing me physically, psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually. I long to connect with other mothers willing to share less hacks and more of the heartache as we continue the work of loving and raising our children. 

 If you’re anticipating a new milestone or school year transition, I hope you have a moment, or several, to allow your body to process, to hold the sadness and the excitement. Even more so, I hope you have a mother friend to call after your child climbs onto the big yellow bus to share that processing with. This is medicine we mothers need.