By: Jamie Thompson
Updated: Dec. 23, 2016
Originally Published: Dec. 23, 2016
One evening, as my partner and I finally settled down to enjoy some television, a realization struck me. We kept the volume low to avoid waking our baby, yet the silence felt monumental. It was a rare moment of tranquility—no baby giggles, no cries, and no arguments over the best way to hold or change our little one. Just stillness.
I turned to my partner and asked, “Do you ever miss the days when it was just us?” To my surprise, he replied with a swift, “Yes.” In that brief exchange, I felt an unspoken acknowledgment of my hidden guilt. During those long nights filled with rocking and desperate wishes for sleep, I found myself regretting the decision to have our son.
This past month has been exceptionally difficult. Our baby hit a sleep regression right around Thanksgiving, and we have endured nearly four weeks of shattered sleep—some nights worse than when he was a newborn. I now understand why sleep deprivation is often equated with torture. I am utterly drained—mentally and physically. I can’t even muster the energy to be angry with him anymore; I’ve become numb.
Despite this, he is a beautiful child, the most adorable baby I’ve ever laid eyes on (yes, I understand that all parents feel this way). Most days are filled with bliss, his chubby cheeks practically begging to be snuggled. I don’t even mind when he has an accident; he’s just that cute. However, the midnight hours often bring the toughest challenges—he simply doesn’t sleep, and neither do we.
Each night feels like an endless procession of footsteps pacing down the hallway, as if I’m a caged animal in a zoo. I swear I could trace a path in the carpet by now. My body is sore and weary from constant demands: feeding, comforting, and nurturing an insatiable little being.
But it’s more than just the lack of sleep. I find myself losing connection with my partner and, even worse, with myself. My entire day revolves around the feeding, changing, and sleep schedules of our baby. Social interactions have dwindled to text messages or scrolling through Facebook, which has become my only outlet while nursing. I’ve stopped painting, I’ve stopped exercising—my body is becoming a shadow of its former self.
The most daunting obstacle I face is the struggle to maintain my identity amid motherhood. Initially, I embraced my new title, feeling as though motherhood was the best thing that could ever happen to me. Yet, as time went on, I began to grapple with the magnitude of change it brought.
Speaking with other mothers has been a lifeline, preventing me from spiraling into despair. Many of them share my feelings of confusion and isolation. Motherhood is a mix of joy and loneliness, love and pain—an experience that is simultaneously the most transformative and challenging of my life.
Ultimately, it’s not my son I regret, but rather the loss of my previous life. Letting go of the person I was for the past decade feels monumental. Once the initial bliss of caring for a newborn faded, a new reality emerged, and the unknown became daunting. The fear is magnified by fatigue and a sense of isolation.
Some nights have improved, while others remain challenging. I remind myself that he is still a baby—vulnerable and in need of me for nourishment, comfort, warmth, and safety.
As I begin to accept the end of my mourning period for my old life, I recognize the dawn of a new chapter. Regret is impossible because he has become my everything too.
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Summary:
Adjusting to motherhood has been a tumultuous ride filled with moments of joy and profound challenges. The struggle to maintain a sense of self while caring for an infant can feel isolating. Yet, through shared experiences with other moms and a newfound appreciation for my child, I am learning to embrace this new life.