Motherhood, Growth and the Space to Continue Becoming

I waited a long time to become a mother.

Not because I was unsure that I wanted children. Quite the opposite. Motherhood was something I longed for deeply.

When my first child arrived, I experienced something that is still difficult to describe.

People speak about happiness, love and fulfilment, yet what I felt seemed to belong to a different category altogether.

It was joy.

But even joy feels too small a word.

It was a sense of completeness, wonder, awe and gratitude all at once. A feeling of being utterly present. A feeling of being touched by something sacred.

I remember looking at this tiny human being and wondering how such love could exist.

The love was immediate.

Natural.

Effortless.

Not something I had to create.

Simply something that arrived.

Something that had perhaps always been waiting within me.

When another child arrived, I discovered something equally surprising.

Love did not divide.

It expanded.

The heart somehow found room for more.

Not by giving less to one child and more to another, but by growing larger than I thought possible.

Motherhood was already changing me.

Not only as a mother, but as a person.

I found myself wanting not only to care for my children but to help them discover their own relationship with life.

To become compassionate.

Thoughtful.

Curious.

Generous.

To learn how to participate in life rather than simply receive from it.

Then another child arrived.

I remember a sentence appearing within me:

When heaven meets earth.

That was the only way I could describe the feeling.

She was heaven.

I was earth.

And for a moment the distance between the two seemed to disappear.

She arrived carrying her own expression of joy, wonder and love.

Yet alongside the love, something else began unfolding.

For most of my life I had combined trust with effort.

I believed in life.

I believed in something greater than myself.

I believed there were forces at work that I could not always see or understand.

Yet I was also a doer.

I planned.

Worked.

Organised.

Solved problems.

Moved things forward.

I trusted life, but I also carried a great deal myself.

This child brought a different lesson.

Not a lesson about doing less.

A lesson about carrying less.

About trusting more.

About allowing life to participate.

About recognising that not everything depended on me alone.

That support could come from others.

That growth could unfold without me controlling every part of it.

Looking back, I can see that each of my children expanded me in a different way.

Each revealed something.

Each invited a different kind of growth.

For this reason, I have never fully related to the idea that children limit our lives.

My experience has been very different.

Some of the greatest growth of my life has happened through becoming a mother.

Not despite my children.

Partly because of them.

They have expanded my capacity for love.

Deepened my understanding of patience.

Invited me into trust.

Brought me face to face with my weaknesses.

And continually encouraged me to keep growing.

Motherhood never stopped my development.

If anything, it became one of the most important paths through which growth occurred.

Whilst my children were growing, I was growing too.

Reflection, learning and self-development remained part of my life throughout.

I continued reading.

Studying.

Writing.

Learning.

Questioning.

Observing.

I found small moments where I could.

A few quiet minutes before sleep.

A reflective pause after waking.

Moments of meditation in bed before the day began.

Family life was full, yet growth continued.

Then something subtle began to happen.

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically.

Gradually.

Over weeks and months.

As nursery became part of family life, I began creating small pockets of time for myself.

At first it might be twenty minutes to go for a walk.

Then an hour wandering around the shops on my own.

A coffee.

A facial.

A massage.

A swim.

Eventually even cutting my long hair short after years of wearing it the same way.

Each of these moments felt significant.

Not because of the activities themselves.

But because they represented something I was still learning.

How to be separate whilst remaining deeply connected.

How to trust that my children were safe, happy and thriving without me being physically present every moment.

How to allow myself to enjoy time alone whilst loving them wholeheartedly.

At times there was guilt.

Not because I loved my children less.

Nor because I regretted the decision.

The guilt came from the tenderness of separation itself.

From entrusting people I loved so deeply into the care of others.

From wondering whether I was doing the right thing.

From adjusting to a new rhythm.

Yet alongside the guilt was curiosity.

I found myself enjoying these moments of solitude.

Not because I wanted to be away from my children.

But because I was discovering another dimension of myself within that space.

A space where I could think without interruption.

Reflect without urgency.

Follow an idea where it wanted to lead.

Simply be.

What surprised me was not that I valued the time.

It was what happened within it.

Space created more space.

A walk became reflection.

Reflection became writing.

Writing became insight.

Insight became change.

I found myself reconnecting with parts of myself that had always been there but now had more room to breathe.

My curiosity.

My creativity.

My writing.

My inner life.

At the same time, I was watching my children grow.

Becoming more independent.

More capable.

More themselves.

And gradually I realised I was witnessing two forms of development unfolding side by side.

Theirs and mine.

Not competing.

Not pulling in opposite directions.

Simply unfolding together.

One of the greatest gifts my children have given me is not merely love.

It is awareness.

Children have a remarkable way of bringing us to our edges.

They expose our impatience.

Our fears.

Our assumptions.

Our limitations.

Only recently I found myself feeling impatient with one of my daughters.

Nothing dramatic.

Just an ordinary parenting moment.

Yet afterwards I reflected on it.

I became curious about what had happened in me and what might have been happening in her.

The reflection softened something.

Compassion appeared.

First for her.

Then for myself.

And I realised, once again, that growth was happening.

Not because I had responded perfectly.

But because I was willing to notice, reflect and learn.

The older I become, the more I think this may be one of the hidden gifts of reflective parenting.

Our children do not simply grow.

They invite us to grow as well.

Sometimes through joy.

Sometimes through wonder.

Sometimes through challenge.

Sometimes through the moments we wish we had handled differently.

Again and again they stretch the boundaries of who we currently are and invite us to expand.

Spaciousness has become an important theme in my life.

Not because motherhood has been limiting.

Not because I have lost myself.

But because growth needs room.

Children need room to grow.

Relationships need room to grow.

Creativity needs room to grow.

And people need room to grow too.

The more I reflect on motherhood, the less interested I am in choosing between motherhood and selfhood.

The real question, for me, is how they grow together.

How a woman can remain deeply devoted to her children whilst continuing to learn, create, reflect and evolve.

How witnessing the growth of our children can help us witness our own growth too.

How love for others and love for ourselves need not compete.

They belong together.

Becoming a mother and becoming a person were never separate journeys.

They have always been part of the same unfolding life.

🌿

M.A.L.I. Neuro-Somatic Practice
Reflect. Reconnect. Grow.

Reflection
After finishing this piece, I realised I had not written the reflection I originally intended to write. I thought I was writing about motherhood in modern life, yet what emerged was a reflection on growth. The growth of my children, my own growth, and the ways these journeys continue to unfold together. In that sense, the writing mirrored the experience itself. I began in one place and arrived somewhere I had not anticipated.