My labor, my trauma – defying nature’s mercy to preserve the truth of motherhood
I documented my labor for 19 hours straight, defying every instinct to forget. While oxytocin should have softened these memories into gentle watercolors, I insisted on preserving them in stark detail, each timestamp a rebellion against nature’s mercy. Through every contraction, every moment of fear, I was determined to keep track, sharing updates with friends in real time. In doing so, I sought a strange kind of witness to my transformation—a process so intense, so profound, it felt like the violent passage from woman to mother.
The science of trauma
Dr. Bessel van der Kolk’s research suggests that immediate recounting of trauma can interfere with the natural healing process. But in my case, I could not let go of the experience. Despite the conventional wisdom that memory fades or softens over time, I pushed against that flow. Every contraction, every moment of terror, became a note in a song of defiance. It was as if I needed others to bear witness to what I was going through, perhaps to affirm that my transformation was not happening in vain. My labor was a moment of both extreme vulnerability and strength, and I couldn’t let it slip away.
Breaking point
The moment the doctor entered, her practiced enthusiasm filled the room. “It’s time to push,” she declared, and suddenly, everything inside me splintered. There was no grand, heroic surge of courage—only panic. I wept, not from the pain, which was muted by the epidural, but from a deeper, more visceral terror. Despite reassurances from the medical team that I wouldn’t feel a thing, the mythical “ring of fire” loomed large in my imagination, an ever-present fear that threatened to drown me.
The moment that wasn’t
Minutes later, my son was born. A new life, a moment that was supposed to be transcendent—filling me with fierce love and connection. But that wasn’t how it went. Instead of the warmth I expected, I felt a disorienting disconnect, as though I were watching someone else’s life unfold before me. The numbness that stole my physical sensations had extended to my emotional state as well, leaving me cold, detached. The intense moment I had expected was missing, replaced with emptiness. I should have been overwhelmed with love, yet all I felt was a confusing numbness.
Confronting reality
As I looked down at my newborn son, I desperately tried to summon the flood of maternal love that movies and Instagram had promised. But it didn’t come. Instead, I was met with a harsh reality: exhaustion, discomfort, and an awareness of my body that felt almost alien. His small features, which should have sparked awe, instead reflected my own inadequacies. There was no overwhelming connection, no magical moment of bonding. I was left grappling with feelings of confusion and guilt.
The pressure to perform
The postpartum ward became a stage on which the expectations of others were ever-present:
- Cheerful lactation consultants demanded access to my body
- Visitors waited for a display of maternal bliss
- Nurses checked off boxes on bonding behaviors
- My own mother’s concerned glances loomed over me
- Generations of women seemed to wait for me to join their ranks, to perform the role I had been cast in
I was not given room to process. There was an implicit understanding that I should be glowing, thriving, eager to show the world how beautifully motherhood suited me. Yet, the pressure to perform felt suffocating. There was no space for my confusion or exhaustion, only the expectation that I would be the mother everyone expected me to be.
The silence of struggle
In the quiet moments between the endless vitals checks and visitor parades, the questions in my mind only grew louder:
- When would maternal instinct arrive?
- Was something fundamentally wrong with me?
- How long could I fake the expected emotions?
- Would anyone believe my truth?
- What kind of mother starts her journey with detachment?
I was consumed by these questions, unable to share my feelings with anyone. The silence of struggle echoed through every corner of my mind, as I navigated a labyrinth of expectations that didn’t align with my reality. I knew I wasn’t alone in my feelings, yet I felt isolated in my experience.
Finding truth in darkness
Slowly, a different kind of truth began to emerge from the darkness:
- Motherhood is not a moment but a journey, one that unfolds over time.
- Love can grow slowly, like the first light of dawn.
- Trauma does not negate one’s ability to be a capable, loving mother.
- Honesty is the most powerful form of care for both mother and child.
- Healing follows its own timeline, not society’s imposed expectations.
In the stillness, I started to accept that my experience was valid, that the depth of my love for my child could grow in ways I hadn’t imagined. The pressure to conform to a specific timeline faded as I realized that my journey was unique, and that, too, was okay.
Breaking the mythology
Society’s narrative of instant maternal love serves no one. It silences real experiences, creates unnecessary shame, and prevents honest dialogue. The myth of instant, overwhelming love perpetuates unrealistic expectations and isolates mothers who are struggling. It tells us that anything less than instantaneous attachment is a failure, when in fact, it’s just one part of a much larger, more complex picture.
A new framework
Perhaps true motherhood begins not with instant love, but with radical honesty. We need to:
- Acknowledge the complexity of the transition from woman to mother
- Accept the full spectrum of emotions that come with this shift
- Honor each individual journey, understanding that there is no universal path
- Support varied experiences and create spaces for growth
By breaking away from the myth of immediate, perfect maternal love, we can build a healthier, more inclusive understanding of motherhood—one that honors the full range of emotions, experiences, and challenges mothers face. Only then can we truly begin to support each other and ourselves in the raw, transformative process of motherhood.
