The Holy Both-And, A New Archetype of Motherhood

What if she doesn’t disappear into devotion or ambition—but holds both with grace?

Throughout every day of motherhood,
I feel the abyss—
a strange cosmic black hole of Love
that doesn’t just call me, it pulls me—
into a current so powerful
I know that if I surrender to it fully,
it may chew me up and spit me out new.

This terrifies me.
It thrills me, too.
But mostly—
it terrifies.

I’ve seen women let that current take them—
into full self-surrender,
melting into love and family so completely
they forget where they end and others begin.
And I’ve seen women draw a hard line:
choosing their work,
their voice,
their path—
refusing to be consumed.

And every day, I feel both inside me.

Love softens my sharp parts.
It shows me where I am everything—and nothing—at once.
And yet, I feel the other “everything”
I fought to reclaim:

My sensuality.
My mysticism.
My writing.
My creative fire.
My self.

photo by Inna Lilla

These parts don’t tend themselves.
They’re gardens that dry up if you forget to water them.

And I remember what it took to bring them back—
how long they were buried,
how many tears it took to unearth them,
how much shame and silence had to be burned off
so I could say: this is who I am.

So must I now choose?

Motherhood or selfhood?
Devotion or purpose?

Some days I stretch time,
finding five minutes to sit at my altar,
ten minutes to write a few raw, unedited lines,
or to dance in the hallway while my daughter naps.

Other days I feel the grief
of wanting more time, more space—
to hear my own thoughts,
to move without interruption,
to take up space as a woman,
not just a mother.

And still—her little hand in mine.
Her eyes soften me again.
Melt me.

And I think about how I want her to speak of me one day.

Not:
“My mom was always chasing her dreams and never saw me.”
Not:
“My mom gave up everything for us and forgot who she was.”

But:
“My mom lived with beauty.
She brought spirit into the everyday.
She left sometimes—but she always came back.
She didn’t abandon us. She wove us in.”

Because I’ve seen what happens when women disappear.
When they forget.
When they become only mother. Or only artist.

I come from them.
The women who gave it all to survive—
coffee beans on a hot Brazilian farm,
martinis in suburban kitchens.
Some were dreamers. Some were ghosts.
They were doing the best they could.

But we?
We are waking up.
We are doing it differently.

We are the generation
rebuilding without a temple.
Parenting without a village.
Creating without a map.

So maybe we begin now.
Maybe we become the mothers
who turn toward each other—
with cracked nail polish, tear-streaked cheeks—
and say: I see you.

And maybe that’s how a new archetype is born.

Not the woman who vanishes into devotion,
not the one who detaches in pursuit of success.
Not the trad wife. Not the boss babe.

But the one who dares to be whole.

Who stirs the soup with one hand
and writes poems with the other.
Who whispers prayers between nap time and nightfall.
Who lets love soften her—but not erase her.

She doesn’t vanish. She weaves.

She integrates. She remembers.

And in doing so,
she gives our children a new story.

when Lua was 4 months old. (she is a year and a half now!)

One where devotion is not disappearance.
One where selfhood is not abandonment.
Where love expands us, rather than consumes us.

This is the new mother.
And she is being called up from the deep caves of our wombs and hearts to dance into this time.