Of Love and Longing:

The Heartache of Motherhood

Standing in the kitchen, holding my breath to see if my daughter has stayed asleep as I exited the dark bedroom—with its damn creaky door we have tried so hard to fix—I hear a whimper of crying beginning. She has refused to sleep or nap at all on this day. My bare feet rest on the cold wood floor, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall: tears streaming down my cheeks, ponytail sloping onto one side with a scrunchie that has lost its scrunch, the depth of my heart spilling down my front.

As I walk back into the bedroom and hold her tenderly in my arms, ready to do this dance as long as she needs, I wonder:

How on earth can motherhood be the most extraordinarily lonely and, at the same time, the most deeply full of love?

Mother and Child, Gustav Klimt

How dare these two things exist alongside each other at the exact same time?

Why so lonely? My heart longs for the nourishment of connection that only happens with adults, mostly when kids are not present, which, as a mom parenting a toddler most of the time, is rare. It happens in pockets, in those moments when there is an exhale of the tracking mechanism inside me, forever aware of this little being, my charge. When she sleeps, I exhale a bit. When she is safe with her dad, my muscles soften their grip. And when my mother mantle comes down, in these rare moments, I am once again thinker, dreamer, mystic, lover, wild woman, world traveler…me.

I could probably count on my fingers the moments of this flavor of sweet relaxation in the last year and a half:

When Martha had me over for mint tea and cold eggs in the Colorado fall and asked, “Can I massage your feet?” She, a mother of three, stopping to nourish the mama in me, the woman in me. My child was not there. I was free to receive. I felt awkward at first, but moved. “Wow, yes, thank you.” I plopped into the couch and into her heart. And then the tears came.

A cloudy summer day at a very fancy hotel in Portofino, Italy—melone and prosciutto and Aperol Spritzes, deep talks with Eric and Eli. A tiny rose on my bikini bottom at the crest of my pubic bone. My baby, small enough to stay put, crawling on the sand without fear of her catapulting off anything. A deep melt.

A few weeks ago, in wintry cold Boulder, over very healthy takeout, I noticed: Wow, I haven’t had an adult conversation like this after 7 p.m. for months! I was elated. Watching the monitor. She sleeps. We eat organic, crisp Brussels sprouts and talk about the Telepathy Tapes. And for a moment, I feel like just a person again, not solely a mother. I could talk for hours! But she wakes at 9:30 p.m., and I go sleep with her. The others stay up till 2, bonding, delighting. I am jealous but happy for my beloved—he needs those moments of freedom too. When I am away from her, I miss her. So perhaps I am secretly not ready for a 2 a.m. night. Nine or ten p.m. feels reasonable. Enough freedom from being a mother, but not too much.

It is a paradox.

This lonely time.

This full-of-love time.

How does the WOMAN get nourished while the MOTHER is amid her initiation, being stripped bare?

When the tiny creature of Love is ever-present—toddling, suckling, drinking gallons upon gallons of your blood and coffee and water turned to milk?

And that child is Love herself.

And you get to be with that Love all day, every day.

It is the greatest gift.

And yet, it can feel lonely.

But you will never ask your child to fill the lonely that only an adult can.

You will never try to make her love do the things it cannot.

And if you denied your lonely, you would be trying to.

You would be asking her to be your everything.

But she will not be your best friend.

Or your creative collaborator.

Or your confidante.

You will be mother.

And you will not ask your man to do it either—to fill this lonely.

You will ask for other humans to meet you in those places of need. And art. And sun. And loud music. But mainly, other humans who can love you in a way the sun cannot.

And you will rejoice in the exquisite gift and task of being mother, of being partner, of being matriarch—the supreme beauty and responsibility, the dream you prayed for, coming true.

So how could you be lonely at the same time?

Your dreams are made manifest, here and now!

And yet, you wish for more—for people to stop and see you, really see you, and say, “You are doing it. Wow. Amazing job, mama.”

And yet, you wish for your own mother, and you grieve that space so deeply.

And yet, you wish someone noticed that you weren’t okay on the days that you are not. Those days when you need a friend, a laugh, a cry. (But if so many of your friends are long-distance, how could they know?)

When your local friends are mainly the tall, thick oaks with their dripping beards of Spanish moss, the camellia bushes with their shouting yellow centers, and a couple of new brilliant people here and there—like sweet schoolgirl friends, getting to know each other, taking dear time. Because we are adult women. And it’s not like we get drunk on cheap wine, dance all night to ’90s rap, and are suddenly bonded as friends like in our 20s. Who has time to take mushrooms and watch the sunrise at the beach? Or even spill secrets of what happens between lovers in a hot tub or over a cup of rose tea?

There is privacy, decorum, formality. Those vulnerable happenings are risky and are perhaps peeled back in time.

Friendships now are forged over a hundred coffee dates spread out over three years.

A few dinners.

A Pilates meet.

A series of voice notes—mostly about things that are voice-noteable.

Where is there space for saying: I am so lonely?

Oh! In therapy. Yes. There is a home for I am lonely. You pay money for it, and it is worth every penny. Blessed home. If not for that home—five years of weekly sessions—where would you be?

But the truth is, even being so full in your having can feel lonely in moments.

And that is okay.

To have the love of a wonderful man, the care, the kindness, the sacred depth.

To have a beautiful, healthy child together who laughs and plays and brings so much joy.

That fullness points to all the times it wasn’t there. Or to the places even that love cannot reach: all the child parts longing for love still, all the tender pieces still looking for their own mothering, still longing for little girls at school to invite them to play.

Even at almost 41.

Motherhood is making the mask of self-sufficiency drop.

The mask of I don’t need anyone.

The mask of I am okay.

Those masks keep out the love. The people who actually want in. To massage feet. To eat takeout. To tell stories and cry together.

The new friends that could click in a fast-track way with the mask down. Speed past the coffee dates and slow shares into something fresh and deep and timeless.

Allowing loneliness is the path for that warm, erotic yearning for deeper connection to be born and met.

Letting lonely not be a victim stance but a sweet, tender invitation. A surface burn that purifies.

Those holy places of longing—where I am lonely opens a door.

It pushes you back toward a community of love and care.

It lets other mothers see you—and non-mothers too.

That sliver of pain sparkles if you let it rise to the surface.

If you sit with its discomfort.

If you let the tears fall down your freckled cheeks and onto your milky bosom and resist wiping any of it away.