The Unremarkable Process Of Becoming Someone Else

By Ellen Jenkinson

At times, I feel this resistance to being a mum. I hear myself speak and can feel an older version of me cringe. But the truth is I roll my eyes at my younger self. While I can appreciate her good parts, and the work she put in to get there, I can also see her for what she was.

Five years ago my camera roll was filled with photos of myself, mostly. Trying to capture my abs in the right light to capture the right attention of the wrong guy. Constantly seeking validation. Forever searching a crowded room to see if I was wanted. It’s hard to think of the times I was too involved in my phone getting to know a stranger that I fumbled time with the people who know me best.

I miss parts of her sometimes too, like the peace of sitting at a cafe by myself with nowhere to be and no one needing me. The spontaneity of one of those amazing “yes” nights that end on the floor of a strangers living room, playing chess with a man in a scarf, walking home with new best friends as the sun rises. More recently, I miss connecting with my partner. Our windows for conversation are so small, so broken, and our time together comes so late in the evening that I can feel the warmth of romance has begun to fade and the sturdiness of love and commitment is left. And while I can yearn for a long cafe breakfast in a quiet city, I know these things come back to me eventually. What won’t change is the better person I can feel myself becoming since having kids. I love that I’m free on a Friday at 11am to drop flowers to my best friends new home before she moves in. I love that I have the emotional capacity to help my friends through hard times and while my days can be stressful and exhausting I don’t feel stressed as a whole. I love who I am when I’m not stressed. I love that I feel more connected to my mum, that I understand her experience and decisions more.

Mostly, I love that motherhood ended this persistent feeling of “what now?” - this unshakeable melancholic fog that followed me from win to win, quietly reminding me that I still didn’t feel fulfilled. I didn’t realise how much I wanted my career to find answers for questions it wasn’t designed to ask. I know I’m excited to return to work, but it no longer has to tell me who I am or where I’m going. It can just be something I do for fun and money.

So, for now, I’m a mum. I never thought I’d find so much satisfaction out of the smallest things that come with that title; seeing my kids in track pants, jumpers, socks and singlets on a cold day. Brushing my son’s hair and smoothing out the bedhead dread locks. Watching them both eat a meal until they’re full. Washing a days worth of dirt and grime from their faces. Poking my head into their rooms before I go to sleep to see them exhausted and recharging for another day.

I hear how arbitrary these things sound, I feel the eye rolls from my younger self, but I guess it’s about caring for something other than yourself, and often more than yourself. It’s about loving something so much you need nothing in return. It’s searching only for their faces in a crowded room. It’s a camera roll full of their little gummy smiles, videos of them doing nothing at all. It’s being so present you don’t even know where your phone is and getting to play all day long. It’s a level of joy I didn’t know I’d get to experience. And all at once, it’s all the other things we know motherhood to be; exhausting, relentless, infuriating, overwhelming, isolating, raw. It really is bittersweet.

There is no method to this madness. It’s laundry, snacks, nappies, and the slow, unremarkable process of becoming someone else.

This piece was written for Fluff in collaboration with The Ritual by KIC, currently discussing the theme: “Method in the Madness.”

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