I’m Doing Motherhood…Again

Curdled milk. Poop under my fingernails. Snot on the cuff of my sleeve.
Anticipating every need. Analyzing every cry, shout, and scream.
Cutting up food. Changing outfits. Dosing medicines. Reading the same stories over and over. Filling the time. Somehow, surviving.

I’m doing this…again.

When I first considered having my own children, I thought I had it all mapped out. There was a quiet confidence—I’ve done this before; I can do it again—that carried me here. And in some ways, I was right. It is different. But at the end of the day, the exhaustion feels all too familiar.

As I try to put this into words, I’m realizing how expansive this experience really is. There’s so much to unpack. I’m going to break it into parts—so I can be clear, both in how I feel and in how I manage it.

Having a baby sounded simple. I thrive on structure and routine, so I imagined settling into a predictable rhythm—doing the same things, day after day. What I wasn’t prepared for was the constant variability, the unexpected increase in mental load, and the intensity of postpartum changes.

And then there’s the mental load. It was already stretched thin, operating at what felt like an inefficient capacity, and yet it somehow expanded further with the responsibility of keeping a human being alive. Beyond the logistical adjustments—new routines, shifting schedules—there’s an added emotional weight. It includes the familiar pressures of keeping everyone happy, staying productive, and being responsible, all while trying to build a meaningful life for this new person I love so deeply. 

The postpartum changes is a conversation I’ll save for another day, for the sake of this topic. But I do want to make a shameless plug for postpartum mental health. As an occupational therapist, I value the roles you play, as both a human being AND a mother. By becoming a mother, you do not subtract the other meaningful, wonderful things about YOU. It won’t come back like the snap of a rubber band, but it will. Take the time to talk with your trusted healthcare provider about navigating all the changes and feelings you have. Because your feelings matter. And you are important. 

Sometimes, my body feels the same way when I care for my son the way I cared for Gabe. And I resent it. But I am also proud to acknowledge it and have a name for it. The anger wells up quickly, the assumptions feel automatic, and the response time to fix everything is still top-notch,  and I wonder if I would be this way if I didn’t have Gabe. I get confused when these feelings come up in these two very different scenarios. 

In other ways, I felt entirely prepared for this journey, in ways that might unsettle new parents who expect to be undone by it. Having someone depend on me isn’t new—it lives in my body like muscle memory. My hands move before I think. I don’t hesitate when I’m thrown up on, when there’s poop on my fingers, or when I have to fish some unidentifiable object out of my son’s mouth. The sounds, the smells, the constant vigilance—it all folds into a rhythm I recognize. Where others might freeze or flinch, I find myself leaning in, already solving the problem before it fully forms. It’s not that it’s easy; it’s that it feels familiar, like I’ve been practicing for this without realizing it. The resentment circles back to me again, when I try to frame motherhood as a learned skill, rather than a new experience. 

Is there a word for feeling both robbed and grateful? 

Being a sibling isn’t just a title—it’s something that shaped me. It’s in the way I make decisions, in the way I carry responsibility, in the way I brace myself when things feel like they might fall apart. It taught me how to hold things together, even when I was still figuring out how to hold myself. 

Because of that, I’ve always felt like a mother, long before I ever became one. It wasn’t something I questioned—it just lived in me, and my friends embraced it. But now, after some time in adulthood, something has shifted. My relationship with my sibling feels different. Softer. More equal. Less like I have to carry everything. And I didn’t expect that. I didn’t know it could change.

So I’m trying to hold onto that when motherhood feels heavy—when it feels like too much, or like I’m disappearing inside of it. Maybe this can change, too. Maybe it won’t always feel like this version of hard. Maybe one day I won’t just be doing it—I’ll feel at home in it. Just like I did with Gabe, before I even knew what it was.

I repeat this mantra over myself daily, until I feel at home in what motherhood can be. 

I am the mother my sibling made me.