Matrescence: The Identity Shift No One Talks About
Before I became a mom, everyone had advice.
"Oh, you’re tired now? Wait until that baby gets here!”
"Enjoy your freedom. You’ll never shower or poop alone again."
"Enjoy every moment. They grow up so fast."
Not one person looked me dead in the eyes and said,
"Hey... in about three years you'll have a full-blown identity crisis because someone asks what your hobbies are and your first thought is, 'Keeping tiny humans alive?'"
That would've been helpful...
Because nothing humbles you quite like sitting in a job interview, getting asked what you enjoy doing, and realizing you've spent so many years taking care of everyone else that you honestly don't know how to answer.
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We spend so much time preparing women to become mothers...
We forget to prepare them for what motherhood asks them to leave behind.
Becoming a mother wasn't just adding another title to my résumé. It felt like someone quietly dismantled the version of me I'd spent years becoming... and then handed me pieces of myself I had never seen before.
Some of those pieces were beautiful.
Some were ugly.
A lot of them were confusing.
Society tells women to expect sleepless nights, sticky countertops, bath time, PTA meetings, and that motherhood will be the most fulfilling job they'll ever have. We're shown the highlight reel—smiling family photos, milestone posts, and captions about soaking up every moment.
But nobody talks about the side you don't post on Facebook.
Nothing prepares you for the day you catch your reflection and wonder who the hell you're even looking at.
Maybe that's why so many mothers quietly whisper, "I don't even know who I am anymore."
I don't think we've lost ourselves.
I think we've outgrown the woman we used to be, but we haven't quite met the one we're becoming. We're caught in the middle of a transformation no one warned us would feel like grief.
It's lonely.
It's disorienting.
And some days, it feels like you're searching for someone you'll never find again.
The truth is, we mourn versions of ourselves that no one else even realizes are gone.
And anyone who tells you otherwise just isn't being honest with you.
Maybe the goal was never to find the woman we used to be.
Maybe the goal was to honor her... and let her grow into someone new.
Maybe this isn't an identity crisis at all.
Maybe it's the slow, painful, beautiful process of rebuilding yourself from the inside out.
And maybe that's why it hurts so much.
One day you'll stop looking for the woman you used to be...
And you'll realize you've been becoming someone she would be incredibly proud of.
What if I told you there's actually a name for what so many mothers experience?
It's called matrescence.
Most of us have heard of adolescence—the awkward, messy transition from childhood into adulthood.
Matrescence is remarkably similar. It's the physical, emotional, psychological, relational, and social transformation that happens when a woman becomes a mother.
Anthropologist Dana Raphael first introduced the term in the 1970s, yet decades later, many women still enter motherhood having never heard it.
Maybe that's part of the problem.
We spend months preparing women to give birth to a baby, but almost no time preparing them for the fact that they'll also be giving birth to a completely new version of themselves.
Researchers have found that the transition into motherhood isn't simply adding "Mom" to the list of roles you already have. It involves a profound reconstruction of identity.
Women often describe feeling as though their priorities, relationships, sense of purpose, and even their understanding of who they are have been taken apart and slowly rebuilt.
One recent study described it as a shift from living as "I" to living as "we"—not because a woman disappears, but because her entire way of existing in the world is reorganized.
That kind of transformation isn't just emotional.
It places enormous demands on your nervous system.
When mothers are carrying unrealistic expectations, lacking meaningful support, or trying to live up to the impossible image of the "perfect mom," that identity shift can become incredibly isolating.
Researchers have linked this period of identity disruption with increased vulnerability to loneliness, shame, anxiety, existential questioning, and, for some women, postpartum depression and other perinatal mood and anxiety disorders.
Motherhood asks every woman to become someone new.
The difference is that not every woman has to make that journey with the same amount of support.
Some women have someone beside them to help carry the weight.
Others carry it alone.
The transformation is still happening.
It's just happening while some mothers have another set of hands...
And others only have their own.
And then there are the single moms.
If motherhood can make you question who you are, single motherhood often doesn't even leave you time to ask.
Because the bills still have to be paid.
The groceries still have to be bought.
The appointments still have to be made.
The lunches still have to be packed.
The homework still has to get done.
The house still needs to be cleaned.
And your children still need a mother who is emotionally present, even on the days when you're completely emotionally spent yourself.
You keep going because you don't have another option.
There isn't always someone waiting to tap you on the shoulder and say, "Go take a shower. I've got this."
There isn't always someone to carry half the mental load, make dinner after a long day, fix what's broken, or simply notice that you're drowning before you're underwater.
For many single mothers, there is no off switch.
You're the provider.
The caregiver.
The chauffeur.
The nurse.
The teacher.
The comfort.
The disciplinarian.
The planner.
The problem solver.
Every. Single. Day.
And somewhere in the middle of keeping everyone else alive, loved, and cared for... you slowly stop recognizing the woman doing all of it.
Then comes the guilt.
The guilt of working so much because you have to provide.
The guilt of missing moments because someone has to pay the bills.
So you keep choosing everyone else.
Until one day you realize you've been surviving for so long that you haven't asked yourself what you need in a very long time.
If you're a single mother reading this...
I hope you know that needing help doesn't make you weak.
Missing who you used to be doesn't make you ungrateful.
And wondering who you're becoming doesn't make you a bad mom.
It makes you human.
So what do you do when you no longer recognize the woman staring back at you?
I think the first step is permitting yourself to stop trying to find the person you used to be.
Not because she didn't matter.
She mattered deeply.
She laid the foundation for everything you're building now.
But motherhood has a way of stretching us into places we've never been before, and it's okay if you haven't quite figured out who you are on the other side of that yet.
Give yourself permission to reconnect with the parts of you that still exist outside of motherhood.
Not in grand, life-changing ways.
In small, ordinary moments.
The first sip of coffee before the house wakes up.
A walk with your favorite playlist.
Journaling after the kids have gone to bed.
Reading a chapter of a book that has nothing to do with parenting.
A long shower without feeling guilty for taking it.
Those moments may seem insignificant, but they're quiet reminders that before you were someone's mother, you were—and still are—your own person.
And don't try to carry this season by yourself.
We were never meant to.
Whether it's another mom who simply says, "I've been there," a local moms' group, an online community that encourages instead of compares, or a therapist who gives you the space to sort through everything you're carrying, healing often begins when we realize we don't have to pretend we're okay.
If you're parenting alongside a partner, remember that they're living through a transition, too. It won't look exactly like yours, but that doesn't make it any less real. Keep talking to each other.
Ask for help before resentment has the chance to speak for you. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do for your family is admit that you need each other.
And somewhere along the way, let go of the idea that there's a finish line called "the perfect mother."
She has never existed.
She isn't waiting for you at the end of this journey.
Your children don't need perfection.
They need a mother who keeps showing up.
One who loves fiercely, apologizes when she gets it wrong, laughs often, learns constantly, and gives herself the same grace she so freely gives everyone else.
Because maybe motherhood was never about becoming the perfect mom.
Maybe it was always about reshaping a whole person while raising another one.
