There I sat, in a class full of other mothers and babies. I’d managed to leave the house today and attempt to be social after becoming a new mummy. Yet for some reason, at that moment, I felt so alone.
I found myself avoiding eye contact with others or simply looking down at my baby. All the mums seemed so cliquey. It felt like school all over again. Feeling like an outsider. Feeling like it was glaringly obvious that I was different. Or so I thought.
Every week, though, I’d force myself to go for the sake of my baby. He was a social soul from such an early age. I could tell he enjoyed the company of other people because he was so curious and happy to be around them.
So here I was, an introverted mother blessed with an extroverted baby.
As I began to settle into the baby classes, I gradually started making acquaintances with other mums. Still, it wasn’t with the cliquey mums, but I preferred it that way. Soon came the longer conversations, with random questions thrown in every now and again that would catch me off guard.
“How was your birth?”
“Are you breastfeeding?”
Four months postpartum, these questions were real triggers for me. I never knew how to respond without bursting into tears, yet deep down I wanted to feel accepted and make new mummy friends.
At the time, I was going through Postnatal depression and a very difficult and very raw breakup with my baby’s father. This was another thing I was trying to hide. I felt embarrassed and had no one I could relate to or talk to about it.
So I didn’t belong with the cliquey mums, the married mums, or the confident mums.
Where did I belong?
After seeking help and advice from my local children’s centre, I was referred to MumsAid. Counselling specifically for mums who had experienced traumatic births and postpartum anxiety.
This was when I finally began to feel like I belonged somewhere.
As a new mum, it’s already difficult trying to find your place in society, regardless of other factors and life changes. My friends and family supported me in the best ways they could, but nobody understood me quite like the women in that counselling room.
I felt seen, heard, and validated.
As I began to work through my difficulties, I started to feel lighter and more in control. That was until I had to move out of my ex-partner’s home. All the anxiety and scary feelings came rushing back. I had to start again.
Having moved back to North London from South London, I realised I’d have to attend new baby classes and, inevitably, try to make new mummy friends all over again.
I found my local children’s centre through my GP and started attending classes every week with my son. He loved them, but again I always dreaded them.
I felt that awkward feeling return. Like I had to force myself to make friends because it was considered normal and expected. I didn’t feel ready to answer those difficult questions again.
Not this time around.
I’d never felt so alone.
The isolation that comes with motherhood is something I’m sure every mother experiences at some point, regardless of their circumstances. Motherhood can look different in so many ways.
As my son approached nine months old, I found myself repeatedly trying to navigate the “return to work” questions.
“So, when are you going back to work?”
“What nurseries are you looking at?”
“Umm…” I’d say. “I’m not going back to work.”
It wasn’t until I was asked that I realised this was no longer an option for me.
I was a single mum with very little support, whose job was all the way back in South London. I could see the confusion on people’s faces when I replied.
Suddenly, I realised it was another category I didn’t quite fit into.
Working mother.
As time went on, I eventually started meeting other mums I could relate to more. Nothing compared to how much it helped speaking to people who understood similar situations.
I’d finally found classes that worked for both of us. Places where we could enjoy ourselves without that constant feeling of dread.
However, I came to realise that there is no way to ensure you’ll never be met with triggering conversations throughout motherhood.
I remember being at one of our regular classes and chatting with a few mums. The conversation started off in a way I could relate to. We were talking about what our babies were eating and developmental milestones.
Then the conversation turned to their partners. They talked about how they never had time for date nights anymore and how their entire relationship revolved around the children.
Again, I found myself in a situation where I couldn’t relate and didn’t want anyone to know I was a single parent.
One of the mums spoke about how difficult things had been since her nanny had left. Another mentioned that her cleaner used to help with the children too.
I remember thinking to myself, I don’t have any of those things.
I don’t have a nanny.
I don’t have a partner to lean on.
I don’t have much family support.
Again, I just couldn’t relate.
I remember feeling them look towards me, waiting for me to add my piece to the conversation.
I couldn’t.
So I found an excuse to leave.
Fast forward a couple of years and here I am. Newly diagnosed with autism and raising a three-year-old.
What really stood out to me after my diagnosis was how much motherhood highlighted a theme that has followed me throughout my entire life.
Isolation.
At school.
In jobs.
In friendships.
In relationships.
And now in motherhood.
For example, I currently live in a community environment, a ground-floor flat with a communal garden.
Again, I often feel like the outsider.
The other families around me are nuclear families. Both mothers have husbands there to help. Their children see their fathers every day. The mothers get on exceptionally well with one another.
Meanwhile, I find myself overthinking every interaction I have with them and often keeping myself to myself.
Upon reflection, I understand that it’s human nature to want to be recognised and feel part of a group or community.
What I’ve found over time is that eventually you do meet people who are on a similar journey to you.
However, I’ve also accepted that being a mother and being autistic will sometimes come with feelings of isolation.
That’s just how it is.
And slowly, I’m learning that being different is okay.
No comments:
Post a Comment