Supermom isn’t real

It’s time for us all to rediscover the wonder of motherhood, without being supermoms. 

I’m buckling my two-year-old into his car seat as I remind my eight-year-old twins to do their seat belts, then assure my six-year-old that there is water when we get home, while asking my four-year-old to climb in the car, when I hear a voice behind me. 

“You’re like supermom! I don’t know how you do it! I can barely handle two!” It’s one of the ladies from the mothers’ group we’re leaving. I cringe and take a deep breath. She probably means well, but there was a time that word “Supermom” would have sent me to a dark place.

I’m no stranger to people commenting on the size of my family. With 5 kids under eight, sometimes I feel like I should wear a shirt that says, “Yes, I have a lot of kids. Yes, they are all mine. Yes, I know where they come from.” 

However, once my initial annoyance subsides, I realize it’s just genuine curiosity in a society that sees children as a barrier to joy, rather than a path to it. 

As the years have gone by, I’ve gotten better at brushing these comments off, but the one that still always stings is when another mom calls me “Supermom”, because my journey is far different than she knows.

Almost three years ago, we had a little boy named Harrison Finch — our fifth child. He was named after a favorite mountain pass in Nevada, a borderline unhealthy fascination with Star Wars, and To Kill a Mockingbird, which I read while I was pregnant with him and couldn’t believe I had just cliff-noted in high school. 

To put it simply, he was a delight. I soaked up those newborn days with the knowledge that they disappear too soon. Even with shuffling three kids to pre-school and wrestling a toddler, I never minded those early days of watching our family mold into our new, yet chaotic, normal.

However, family dynamics ebb and flow, and when Harrison turned three months old, I had to abruptly start pumping and supplementing. And then, two family members suddenly passed away within days of each other. I felt guilty because I wasn’t exclusively breastfeeding anymore, and I was grieving the loss of these loved ones.

On top of this, I had all five little ones at home because our preschool was on break for two months in the dead of winter. 

I was overwhelmed, underwater, and I felt like I was drowning every minute of every day. I continually broke down crying. I couldn’t function at home and felt like my life was an uncontrollable monotony of laundry, diapers, bottles, and tantrums on repeat.

As I fell deeper into depression, the perfectionist inside me felt like I had to be “on” at all times outside of the home. Even though many meant their comments as compliments, the wonder and awe at “being open to children” felt like pressure to be the “perfect” family. 

Whenever I went out in public, I had intense anxiety and fear of being judged — judged for my weight, for the five children I had, for whether I was handling it all correctly. 

The perfectionist inside me felt like I had to be “on” at all times outside of the home.

Whether these feelings were rooted in any truth was irrelevant; I started self-medicating with alcohol to lift the depression and calm my anxiety. Whenever I felt stressed, I drank. Whenever I felt anxious about going out and seeing people, I would be at least a bottle deep. 

This consumption continued for months, until I found out I was pregnant…again.

But I lost my baby at 14 weeks, and the sorrow, guilt, and pain sent me spiraling. I blamed my husband for not showing emotion. I blamed my Church for putting too much pressure on me to have more children. I blamed other moms around me for not caring or not reacting the way I thought they should.

But above all, I blamed myself, for initially wishing the pregnancy test was false and that the baby wasn’t there.

Whenever I felt anxious about going out and seeing people, I would be at least a bottle deep. 

If my drinking had been bad before, it quickly spun out of control, but this time, my rage and emotional eating did too. 

I put on 40 pounds, numbing my pain with food and alcohol. I was disgusted by the way I looked and felt, but still outwardly felt I had to uphold this myth that I was a Supermom. I pushed myself to take care of and be there for my children, my husband, and everyone else, but not once did I take time to be there for myself.

This downward spiral continued on, until one day, the following April, I saw a sign for a 5K. 

I hadn’t run a mile in over a decade, and I hadn’t run a 5K in my entire life. Still, for some reason it sparked something in me—I wanted to see if I could do it. 

So I started training, and I told myself just to put one foot in front of the other, to just keep moving forward. And with every mile, I’d shed a little bit more of my pain. As I ran (and sometimes walked), my tears fell on the pavement, mourning the loss of my baby and all the time I had squandered with my children. 

Bit by bit, my anxiety started to lessen and my depression disappeared, and I slowly discovered the happy, healthy, strong mom within. I began to see the strength I always had inside, and all the obstacles I had already overcome. My inner voice changed from one of shame and condemnation, to one of forgiveness and love. 

Instead of telling myself all the ways I had failed, I started to focus on all the ways I had succeeded. I decided to choose joy, and even in the mundane, and forgiveness when I failed and whether it was running or in my life, my motto became “keep moving forward”.  

My husband and I also decided to make some major life changes—my husband quit his job with long hours, and we moved to a city that was a better fit for our family. 

Instead of telling myself all the ways I had failed, I started to focus on all the ways I had succeeded.

As for the drinking, it just naturally went by the wayside—running had become my new coping mechanism. I had started to see  a therapist right before and after my miscarriage, and I still continue to see one. With these steps (in addition to the great support of a few close friends), things started to look up for me—and our family.

I wish I could say that running a 5K is the cure to depression and anxiety, but really, what running reminded me is that I can do hard things…. including forgiving myself and giving up the need to be “Supermom.”

Even though this happened a year ago, just two months ago was the first time I decided to share my story on social media. And whenever I share, people reach out and tell me how sorry they are I had to go through all that pain. But as I’ve healed, I’ve realized I wouldn’t change that valley and the lessons it taught me. 

I can do hard things… including forgiving myself and giving up the need to be “Supermom.”

I learned to be vulnerable, that it’s okay not to be perfect, and not to measure my worth by whether or not I can live up to being “Supermom.”

Because moms, “Supermom” is a myth, and we need to dispel it. 

Motherhood is innate: there is no greater or lesser mothering. There is only our own, authentic mothering. We are the perfect mother for our own children already, deep inside.

Mama, you are enough. You are a beautiful daughter of God and you are worthy of His love—even if you’re not perfect.

I learned that by rediscovering that beautiful woman deep inside, I could find the joy in motherhood again.

The only mother I need to be is a happy mother. A truly happy mother. Happy, strong moms raise happy, strong children, and it’s time for us all to rediscover the wonder of motherhood, without being supermoms. 

So, to the mom who proclaimed I was a supermom while struggling to corral and buckle my children into the car? If I had the chance again, I would respond: “There is no such thing, but thank you. We are all mothering in our own, best way.”

It’s time for us all to rediscover the wonder of motherhood, without being supermoms.