I Didn’t Lose Myself in Motherhood. I Learned That I Needed to Find Myself.

My son is 13. His brother was born when he was nearly 5. Until then, he and I were a team of two. In fact, it took me a while to wrap my head around the fact that we had become a trio, rather than a duo with an appendage. 

His dad worked a lot and we spent nearly all of our hours together. I rarely went anywhere without him. He came to all of my infertility appointments, even. We were tight. 

And he was fun. SO much fun. He wore costumes to Target way longer than a typical kid would, asked me to paint his face just for fun on any random Tuesday. He knew everything about every animal on the planet and had big plans for his life – to move to Thailand to save gibbons. He loved gibbons.

He was funny and wild and curious. The kid didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about him. 

He wanted to go to public kindergarten and I sent him, but he hated it. He hated that they couldn’t play and that the shades were always down in the classroom so they couldn’t even see the playground. And he thought the behavior charts were mean. Not because he was ever “clipped down”, but because he hated that any kids were.

So I sent him to a Montessori school for grades 1 and 2. I bartered with the school – I taught the kids yoga classes and he got an incredible education. I loved that school. But then they relocated to a space that resembled the X-Mansion and I just couldn’t stomach sending him to school with a bunch of rich white kids anymore.

We switched to home schooling and spent the next 3 years going on incredible adventures together with a community of like-minded progressive families who valued curiosity and kindness and emotional health. It was fantastic.

And then he asked to go to middle school.

He started middle school with rainbow-colored hair – something that made me nervous as shit as I contemplated whether or not to talk with him about how kids can be mean and all of that because he didn't know. He had always been in safe circles with kind kids who would, for the most part, be considered weird to the outside world. He believed he was “normal”.

But I decided to give the kids at school the benefit of the doubt and let him believe for as many minutes on the planet as he could that the world is a kind and safe place. So I gave no warnings and I just told him I love him.

This tiny little person with rainbow hair asked to go to middle school I didn't want to send him. But I trusted him and wanted him to have the experience he desired.

And I was scared and heartbroken and excited for him all at once. 

He stepped out of my car that first day and walked into that school without looking back, the same way he did when he went to preschool for the first time. He was always so brave and confident, even though I knew he wasn’t “the same” as everyone else. 

Or so I thought. 

Because at some point, I lost him. 

I mean he’s still here and he’s still an incredible kid who I’m proud of every day, but he’s not the same. 

And I now realize what that means to me — it means that he’s not the same as me.

He’s not like me anymore. He cares so deeply about fitting in and playing the part of the cool kid that I don't know who HE actually is.  (In the same way that I struggle every day these days to wrap my head around who I actually am.)

And I get that this happens to all kids at some point, but it’s as if I’ve been watching him choose his costume and his masks and his roles for this performance. And I hate it. I hate it because I can't figure out if this is just who he is or if this is the world breaking him down and molding him into what it thinks he should be. (The way it did to me.)

My biggest fear has always been that the world would break his spirit. (The way it broke mine.) And I’m watching it happen in front of my fucking face. 

I don’t like it. 

I used to teach middle school and I felt safe and seen as a middle school teacher. When I was with kids, I always felt I could be more myself. I could be dorky and weird and most of them thought I was pretty awesome. 

Even the cool kids. 

I spent my life pretending. Pretending to fit into a world I never felt I fit into. Hiding my weirdness to the best of my ability. Staying quiet. Reacting the way I should. Hiding.

And when I had kids I was like – this is amazing! The two people I love most on the planet think I’m fun and funny and they love me just exactly as I am. They love me when I’m weird and when I’m loud and when I lose my shit over stupid things and when I’m aggressive and when I “make something out of everything” and when I can’t figure out how to follow instructions for a board game. I can be me around them. It's part of why I love being a mom so much. I feel safe to be seen by my kids.

Until recently. 

I’ve been noticing myself masking up around my own kid and around his friends. I find myself censoring myself so I don't get made fun of and told that I'm embarrassing or weird. And I couldn't figure out why it was upsetting me so much because I get it that all most kids are embarrassed by their parents at some point, but this is just hitting me really hard. 

And I figured out why – it’s giving me flashbacks and insight into my life before I wore my own masks. It’s reminding me of what it felt like when I was a kid and began to realize I didn’t fit.

This morning I talked with him about it and through teary eyes I told him what I just told you. 

I want to be clear that this isn’t about my kid growing up. Its about me, and my own journey of self-discovery, which began the day I became a mom.

I had no idea who I was before that. I thought I did but, man, I had no idea. 

And it's finally all starting to make sense. And it's scary and heavy and strange to feel this way – to realize that you've been pretending around people your entire life and that one of the few people who have ever seen you unmasked now wishes you’d put your mask on.