Why Does Motherhood Still Feel Like a Cop-Out?

“So, what do you actually do?”

It’s such a simple question.

You hear it at birthday parties, somewhere between the wine and the charcuterie. On terraces, when you meet someone new. Or on dating apps, right between “Do you like coffee?” and “Beach or mountains?”

Most people don’t mean much by it. It’s just something you ask. A way to start a conversation.

Still, in the past few months, every time I heard that question, I felt this awkwardness within myself.

Not because I didn’t know the answer.

But because, unconsciously, I wasn’t sure if it was enough. If it would sound like enough.

“I’m just at home with my baby right now. Full-time.”

I’d say it with a smile—because I do love it—but then, almost immediately, I’d add something:

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“But I want to get back to something soon.”
“Before this, I was doing…”
“It’s temporary, until we find a new home and our rhythm.”

I’d dress it up. Give context. So it wouldn’t sound like just that.

And at some point, I caught myself.

Why do I do that? Why do I feel the need to make this role look more like a stepping stone than a place I fully choose to be?

Because the truth is—I didn’t pause my life. This is my life.

And it’s not a side note, either. It’s big. It’s full. It’s something I dreamed of for a long time. It's intense, beautiful, challenging, and real.

It’s carrying, feeding, soothing, rocking. Trying to eat food before it goes cold. Losing track of time. Doing more in a day than I ever did, without really being able to point at anything “done.”

And somehow I’d internalised the idea that this isn’t a valid answer to that question. That daily, hands-on, unpaid care work didn’t quite count—at least not in the way that “work” is usually measured.

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That if I say, “I take care of my baby 24/7,” it needs an asterisk. A timeline. A future plan attached to it.

So I started paying attention to that. And here’s what I noticed:

We live in a world that values output—what you produce, what you earn, what you display. Where being “busy” is seen as a badge of honour. And where new mothers are expected to bounce back, as if nothing happened.

Then there’s also this layer I didn’t expect—a part of me that wonders if I come across as traditional or conservative, just because I’m home full-time with my baby. And that feels off. Because that’s not me.

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I’m not here to fit into some outdated version of what a woman should be. I want to be here—fully, intentionally—but on my own terms. Fiercely. Freely.

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Society still has this narrow image of stay-at-home moms. Like it’s a role defined by sacrifice, by giving up, by being less visible or ambitious. And that image feels so far from how I feel inside—creative, curious, restless in good ways, dreaming big.

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I guess that tension made me hesitate until now. Made me soften what I say when people ask—not because I’m ashamed of motherhood itself (quite the opposite), but because I don’t want to be misunderstood, reduced, or boxed into something that just doesn’t fit.

It’s no wonder there’s this little voice that asks:

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Is this still enough?
Am I still enough?

But also:
Am I slowly disappearing?
Is this who I am now?

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It's a push and pull.

Because a big part of me loves this.

The closeness. The tenderness. The miracle of watching this tiny human grow.
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But another part worries.

Worries that this love, this invisibility—could gently consume me.

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Full-time motherhood feels like a spiritual practice, in a way.

The surrender. The presence. The repetition.

To experience once again that strength doesn’t live in being seen.

It’s in the deep, unspoken presence of giving yourself without expectation or applause.

Almost like meditation—a gentle surrender, being present and giving myself fully.

So from now on, I’m trying to say it simply, fully, without defense:

“I’m taking care of my baby. That’s how I spend my days.”

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Not as a placeholder. Not as a prelude to something more impressive. But as truth.

And that truth is wonderful.

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And for as long as I’m in it—I want to allow myself to deeply enjoy it. Not just get through it, but because I know how fast it flies by, how unbelievably beautiful it is, and how lucky I am to even have this time.

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The other parts of me—my ambitions, my projects, my dreams—they’ll come back in their own time.

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But for now, this is enough. More than enough.

And as I’m writing this piece, I’m learning to believe it.