Mothers have long held a revered place in literature and folklore, not simply for their ability to give life, but for their myriad qualities—boundless compassion, steadfast kindness, and the celebrated selflessness that defines them. I found the role of a mother both enchanting and daunting, as it felt so far removed from who I truly was. What kind of transformation would I need to undergo to embody this idealized version of womanhood?
Even during times when I didn’t desire children, it was difficult to dismiss motherhood as the pinnacle of feminine fulfillment. It appeared to be a rite of passage, a way to step into a more evolved self, at the very least a more prepared one. If I became a mother, my purse would contain more than just an old snack; it would be filled with tissues, snacks, and Band-Aids—items that served to nurture others, a motivation I had always struggled to grasp.
Mothers seemed stable and dependable in ways I could never be. I believed there had to be something that made them this way. Perhaps it resided in the baby itself. By having a child, I thought I could become someone new. All it would take was nine months—a transformative period where hormones, the baby, and the womb acted as a cocoon, allowing me to evolve into a nurturing mother. So, when I chose to conceive, I envisioned not just giving birth to a baby, but also to a new version of myself.
While I genuinely wanted the baby and recognized the sacrifices involved, I was fervently convinced that this transformation would occur. I believed that once I became a mother, I would shed my former self—selfish, reckless, and plagued by addiction. I imagined that motherhood would relieve me of my urge to drink excessively, my battle with depression, and my anxiety. I thought I could finally be content, settled, and whole.
Pregnancy filled me with profound gratitude and purpose. The radiant glow I experienced was genuine. Others—men, women, and children—looked at me with admiration, seeing in me the selflessness I had always aspired to possess. It was nearly effortless; my pregnant form seemed to embody everything I longed for. I assumed that once I held the baby I already loved, I would be transformed. I’d be liberated from my obsession with alcohol, leaving behind years of binge drinking and blackouts that had haunted me since my teenage years.
I could never be a drunk mom. In my eyes, such moms were irresponsible and selfish; they couldn’t truly be mothers. In the weeks leading up to my daughter’s arrival, I often thought, “I’m grateful I’ve changed and no longer need to drink.” It was comforting to believe that I had escaped the grip of alcoholism.
However, the reality of motherhood was a stark contrast to my expectations. The experience was as powerful as it was overwhelming, and while I anticipated the challenges, I was unprepared for the depth of emotional turmoil that followed. I became engulfed by postpartum depression and was diagnosed with PTSD after a difficult birth, a reality I had not even considered until a doctor referred me to a specialist in trauma recovery for new mothers.
My drinking began as a few glasses of wine here and there in the early days of motherhood, but it quickly spiraled. I knew too well how alcohol provided me an escape—from my body, my emotions, and the relentless hours of new parenthood. Alone at home with my baby, I contemplated drinking earlier in the day, rationalizing that no one would notice. One night, despite promising myself I wouldn’t drink, I found myself at the local store purchasing a bottle of wine. I attempted to limit myself to one glass, but often finished the bottle instead.
The most troubling part was the growing sense that I needed that wine to cope. I found myself resenting my daughter when she woke up after I had poured my first glass, and her cries became mere interruptions in my foggy haze.
Then one night, when my daughter was nearly four months old and my husband was working late, I succumbed to boxed wine left over from a holiday gathering. What followed was a blur—I blacked out. The next morning, I woke up to find my daughter sleeping beside me, unaware of how she had gotten there or how I had cared for her that night. The terror of what could have happened haunted me.
As I held her the next morning, shame washed over me. I realized I needed to confront what I had long denied. For the first time, a voice inside me spoke clearly: “You’re an alcoholic. Seek help.” Those words had never crossed my mind before. I had been spiraling out of control, but now I recognized that no amount of moderation would suffice. I understood that motherhood would magnify my addiction, not solve it.
After nearly 18 months of sobriety, I’ve come to accept that motherhood did not heal me. Nothing could have. I had been searching for something—anything—to fill the void and make me feel whole. I had chased achievements, relationships, and substances, only to find emptiness.
I love the metaphor of the caterpillar, which eats voraciously until it must stop and simply be still. This is where I am now—cocooned, safe, and learning to exist in the present moment. Sometimes, I feel trapped by old memories and regrets, but I am learning to embrace them. I am in my cocoon, with all that I was and who I am becoming. The journey of motherhood has revealed my vulnerabilities and fears, forcing me to confront my reality. It has taught me to love myself, allowing me to truly love others.
For more insights on this journey, you might find our other blog posts helpful, such as those at Intracervical Insemination. If you’re seeking reliable information on pregnancy and home insemination, I recommend checking out CDC’s resource for comprehensive guidance. Additionally, for those interested in at-home solutions, Make a Mom offers expert advice on insemination kits.
Summary
The journey of motherhood was not the cure-all I had anticipated for my addiction. Instead, it illuminated my vulnerabilities and led me to confront the truth about my alcoholism. Through this process, I have learned to embrace my past while growing into a more authentic version of myself.