Issue 46: Is There Space for Grief in Motherhood?
Just boiling noodles like every grieving mother everywhere
Oof. A long summer with the kids and a busy start to the school year pulled me away from this newsletter more than I had anticipated. Grateful for the fall season and its fresh start. Thank you for continuing to support my writing, and for being here. I appreciate you.
Upon turning 40 at the end of last year, I did the thing every woman with a milestone birthday does: I declared the new decade a fresh start, a renewal of sorts. The fact that my 30s were completed had somehow translated into a rebirth, despite knowing that I could only improve and change to an extent, that much of life is quite simply out of my control.
Late spring brought the hospitalization of my dad, several times over—a depleted platelet count that couldn’t be righted, leaving him susceptible to what could be fatal bleeding without the safeguards of clotting blood that we take for granted. One afternoon I went to bring him some fried chicken in the hospital—a favorite of his, and an acceptable food to his diabetes—finding him cloaked in a tattered hospital gown. Paper-thin skin peeked out from the drooping neckline, and I realized that I’m at the point in my life in which I am beginning to witness the heart-breaking decline of my aging parents.
A month later, I had to put our still-fairly-young cat, George, to sleep suddenly, due to heart failure that revealed itself without warning. I sat alone in the cold, sterile vet room and cried heaving sobs as I looked him in the eyes and said my premature goodbyes, then held him in big, fluffy blankets as his body went limp in my arms.
At the end of summer, my oldest started kindergarten. I prepared his backpack, we picked out clothes for the first day, I snapped a photo and walked him into his new school with new classmates, new teachers and new routines. We closed the chapter of toddlerhood and embarked on big-kid life without much fanfare, another milestone come and gone—a blur of years that I wouldn’t get back.
Finally, with my littlest back at preschool last month, I was able to take a moment to feel the weight of this year. I had turned a blind eye to it, both too busy to grasp its loftiness and too dismissive to allow myself to sink into its heaviness. Besides those fleeting minutes in the vet office, I hadn’t cried about any of it, hadn’t let myself be consumed by the emotional toll of each experience. I had lunches to make and bills to be paid. Where would I possibly find the time to grieve?
Reading Sandwich by Catherine Newman this summer, this passage stopped me mid-sentence, just after our protagonist, Rocky, finds out she’s miscarried:
“I closed my eyes in the car, put a hand on my belly inside of which was our still child—a withered little peach, the blush off its cheeks. There was something in my brain like a dial tone, and I wondered if I would die. But I wouldn’t, of course. I’d get home and boil noodles like every grieving mother everywhere.”
I had been bearing it all—like every grieving mother everywhere—and I wasn’t even faced with something more acute, like the death of a family member, the loss of a home, a divorce or separation. When we are consumed with the care of our children, we minimize our pain to keep the proverbial boat afloat. Yes, there may be some respite available, in which we can lean on our partners, our family, our friends, to hold the line while we take a day or two or a even week to grieve—but then we are back to pick-ups and drop-offs, our hearts left in limbo between the shattering and the repair.
If there’s a solve for this, I’m not sure what it is. Our inner lives are silenced in order for us to tend to the loud yearnings of our kids; their emotional urgencies take presidence over our quiet, simmering sorrow. In a perfect world we find regular pockets of time to hold the sadness, anxiety and pain that we don’t allow in most days. In our imperfect reality, we butter the toast, answer the email, schedule the dentist appointment, turn over the laundry, order the birthday gift.
When I got home that night from putting our cat down, my eyes were red and swollen, and as I opened the front door to see my kids, the tears continued to come. I sat down on the kitchen floor and explained to them in the best way I knew how that George wasn’t coming home, that he was sick but not in pain anymore, and that yes, I was very very sad. My kids responded with a smattering of emotions in the way only kids can: sadness, confusion, blind acceptance of an abstract concept and even a bit of ambivilance, unable to grasp the finality of the event.
A few days later, something upset my 3-year-old. I can’t remember what it was but it was something that made her sad in a deeper way than a mundane frustration or disappointment. She started crying big crocodile tears, looked me right in the eyes and said between sobs, “I miss Georgie.”
I knew what she was crying about had nothing to do with our cat, but she had, astoundingly, created an association of deep sadness with my missing our cat the night I came home from the vet. Her words I miss Georgie translated to I’m feeling a bigger sadness than I know how to explain. My vulnerability had offered her a portal into the experience of grief.
I thought about this, and understood that even though we don’t have the bandwidth and mental fortitude to grieve whenever we wish we could, that maybe by allowing our kids to witness our grief sometimes, we’re opening them up to expressing their own smaller griefs. They see us express so many other emotions daily—amusement, exhaustion, happiness, anger—which helps them, evenutally, to name their own emotions when they experience them. Revealing grief in the same way might, actually, be the unlocking to a new avenue of self awareness for them.
I’m not sure I have the words to sufficiently explain to my kids what grief is, how it lingers, and why it’s often so much harder to bear than other emotions. Until I find them, when I’m feeling the weight of the world and have to let grief in, right then and there, I’ll squeeze the two of them tight in my arms and whisper, quietly: “I miss Georgie.” I have a hunch they’ll know exactly how I feel.
Worth Reading: Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder (Amazon // Bookshop.org)
Yoder’s 2021 novel—about a new mother who has just left the art world to stay at home with her toddler—has been on my TBR since its release and was bumped to the top in light of its adaptation to film starring Amy Adams (coming to theaters in December). This book is for my fellow moms who may feel a little disillusioned by the role we’ve been sold and its often brutal reality, specifically the lack of systemic support of mothers, the inequitable emotional and logistical load mothers carry (even in the best partnerships!), the loss of identity and autonomy in motherhood. Our protagonist reaches a breaking point, finally leaning into the rawness of it all, which, disconcertingly, incites her metamophosis into a dog. Yes, it sounds crazy (and it is!) but it’s executed expertly, with sharp writing and gutting insights throughout that will have you nodding in desperate recognition.
Related reading: other recent books that I’ve enjoyed include The Sicilian Inheritance (dual POV/timelines, female leads, light thriller) and The Mystery Guest (cozy whodunit, quirky and lovable characters).
Worth Listening: Jia Tolentino on The Ezra Klein Show
Jia Tolentino’s writing is consistently smart, resonate, and compelling—she’s one of the great contemporary journalists, and I’m at once intimidated by her intelligence and drawn in by her relatability. Listening to her talk candidly in interviews widens the chasm between my perception of her and a softer Jia—one who is just trying to make sense of life in the same ways we all are. This conversation touches on screen time (she’s a fan), psychadelics (also a fan), and pleasure-seeking (we’re all fans)—among other things. She reframes motherhood for me often, and this discussion is no exception.
Related reading: I really enjoyed listening to Jia’s book of essays, Trick Mirror, last year, and recommend checking it out if you like this interview.
Worth Spending: Limited-Edition Pinback Button Postage Stamps
I didn’t think stamps would ever make a mention in this newsletter, but here we are: the absolute coolest pinback buttons postage stamps were just released at the USPS and they are so good. Just be sure to keep them out of reach from littles as they look very similar to stickers! (P.S. Don’t sleep on these, my local postal worker said they’ll likely be gone by Halloween!)
Worth Clicking: “The Impossibility of Parenting” by Asia Suler
Asia Suler writes about motherhood in her fantastic newsletter, , and in this post she highlights how impossible parenthood can feel for one simple reason: we’re doing it mostly alone, in a vaccuum. She writes:
It’s not that I wasn’t built to be a mother. It’s not that I’m doing anything wrong. It’s not even that parenting a toddler is as hard as it feels most days.
It’s that being a parent and having to do everything else is impossible.
It’s impossible to both parent and work full time. To parent and have all the dishes be clean. To parent, even when you have a partner, and have food on the table every single day. And then to clean it all up again. And yet most of us are doing it, every day.
Every day we request our bodies and psyches to keep holding the impossible, and it’s slowly grinding away our ability to see possibility.
When we’re taxed with doing it all, the possibility of pleasure and joy begins to feel unaccessible, foreign. This piece reminded me of the importance of community, and how impactful it can be when we make it a priority.
Worth Noting: This week’s 10 Honorable Mentions
Speaking of novels about slightly unhinged mothers, Madwoman by Chelsea Bieker is at the top of my fall to-read list—you’ll be hearing a lot about this one in the online literary discourse.
Just really good retro-looking martini glasses.
- ’s essay Ignore the Mess! which explores the ways in which we couch our many inner insecurities by apologizing for our outward appearances.
If you’re a romance reader (or want to read more romance, like me), keep your eyes on 831 Stories, founded by NYC powerhouse duo Erica Cerulo and Claire Mazur. They are completely reimagining the romance space - including covetable merch, fun events, audio epilogues, music (!), fan fiction and more. Their first release is called Big Fan, and is out now.
File under: recipes I make for my children which they will never eat and I will consume alone in a single sitting: Morning Cookies. (Yum.)
is one of my favorite escapist newsletters, particularly Caitlyn’s recent fall-focused posts: September wishlist, kitchen witch, and autumn is here.
Like the rest of the world, I loved bingeing Nobody Wants This, a cozy, heart-warming fall rom-com starring Kristen Bell and Adam Brody.
Finally adding to cart The Little Ghost Who Was A Quilt, a sweet Halloween tale reminding its readers that it’s OK to be a bit different from everyone else.
I’m completely entranced by Lauren Cutts’ smear art, a unique technique she first developed to release herself from a creative stagnation around making “perfect” art. Would love to own one of her originals someday.
A 6-day summer camp for women at a French chateau (two pools! 20 acres of rose gardens! wine with every meal! arts and crafts! stargazing!). 2025 is already full but I can daydream about a 2026 attendance…
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I am honored to be mentioned in your substack post, especially one that begins "Oof." I really, really feel you, Christy. I'm so sorry for these losses and whispers of loss to come.