I don’t recall ever dreaming of becoming a mother. I think I always assumed I would be one simply because that’s what you did. You grew up, got married, and had kids. As a child, I didn’t ever question this sequence of events.
As I got older, spent more time in the world, learned and experienced more, my opinions about motherhood slowly evolved. And my feelings about pregnancy came into focus. I did not like the picture of motherhood that was so often painted for me. And I was terrified of pregnancy.
When I became pregnant, I rejected the way people so casually spoke about my body. I hated the way people assumed my excitement. I loathed the fact that my future child and my mothering of that child suddenly became the most interesting thing about me. The thing I feared happened in exactly the way I knew it would. My own identity—the fullness of it—began fading into the background in favour of my identity as a mother. I was being reformed and re-identified without my consent.
So what did I do in response to all of this? I did the most traditional and stereotypical thing I could think of. I got maternity photos taken. I spent so much time resisting the identity I felt was being forced upon me that I was curious what would happen if I intentionally embraced it. What if I embraced my body the way it was? What if I celebrated pregnancy? What if I looked with excitement and love toward the welcoming of my child? What would happen?
Well, the experience did not change how I felt about motherhood and pregnancy. But what it did do was connect me emotionally to what was happening to me physically. I was pregnant. I was becoming a mom. And what I realized when looking at the pictures that captured me so beautifully was that I could embrace that truth in whatever way I wanted. I did get to control who I was in this moment and every moment after. In those pictures, I was the one carrying the child. Therefore, I was the one who got to decide what motherhood meant for me. Nobody else. Not society, thank God. And not family, friends, or community (no matter how much I value their love, support, and advice). Those photos encouraged me to take the pressure off. I could just exist as I was, and that could be enough.
A simple lesson, really. But women are never given the luxury of learning lessons simply. They always have to wade through centuries of societal oppression and discrimination, of conditioning and expectation, to get to the truth—a truth I believe is written into their souls by God—that they are complex human beings, made in God’s image, who bring their whole selves to every identity they will ever have. We are not one thing. We were not made for one thing. We were made to be representatives of Jesus Christ here on earth. And yes, this includes the immense privilege of bringing life into the world, a miraculous gift we share with God. But it is not the only thing we do, as it is not the only thing God does.
As I write this, I have now been a mother for four and a half months. When I feel the weight of that identity overwhelming me, I look at those pictures and am reminded that I’m still just me. The person God created me to be. And that is a relief, a blessing, and a privilege.