I wrote this a few years ago, but a recent conversation with a friend brought it all rushing back.
She had just driven her mother to New York City. It was hours on I-95, heavy traffic, construction, impatient drivers...the kind of drive that would make most people anxious. Her mother doesn't drive, so she was the only driver.
She did it.
As I listened to her story, I found myself admiring her confidence. Then I laughed and admitted something about myself.
"I still don't think I could do that."
There was a time when driving long distances didn't bother me at all. Yet somehow, even after all these years, that confidence never fully returned.
It reminded me of something I had written years ago.
There was a time when I thought I was a strong person.
Or at least, that's what I told myself.
I believed I made decisions with my head, not my heart. I was practical, logical, independent. Emotions didn't dictate my choices.
Or so I thought.
Now, when I look back, all that confidence has been reduced to one thing.
Blah, blah, blah.
Because then...
I became a mother.
In her place came someone who says, "Awww."
Someone who gives kisses for no reason.
Someone who still asks for hugs.
Someone who worries.
Constantly.
Before children, driving was never a big deal.
I drove everywhere by myself. Long distances didn't intimidate me. I never thought twice about getting in the car and going wherever I needed to.
Then the children came.
Suddenly, I wasn't just responsible for myself anymore.
I was responsible for the three little people sitting in the backseat.
My husband often worked nights and weekends, so many evenings it was just me. Those early years felt like living in a permanent state of alertness. Even while sleeping, part of my brain never really shut off. Every decision carried a different kind of weight because someone else's safety depended on me.
Without even noticing, my world became smaller.
Driving was no longer freedom.
It became responsibility.
I stopped taking long trips alone. My driving was mostly limited to grocery stores, school, doctor's appointments, and places close to home.
Years ago, I had to drive somewhere over an hour away.
There was no husband available.
No friend to drive.
It was just me.
And I was terrified.
The younger two were with me. They were old enough to sit in the front seat, but I still wouldn't let them.
As we were driving, my daughter, looked at me and asked,
"Mommy, why are you afraid? You're a good driver. You follow all the rules. You never speed. And all those stories you tell us about driving everywhere when you were younger...what happened? How did you do it?"
I smiled.
My answer came without even thinking.
"I became a mother."
That was it.
No long explanation.
No complicated psychology.
Just four simple words.
I became a mother.
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Motherhood has a funny way of changing your definition of strength.
It makes you brave enough to fight for your children, yet fearful of anything that could hurt them.
It teaches you unconditional love while introducing worries you never knew existed.
It makes your heart walk around outside your body.
My children often tell me I'm overprotective.
They're probably right.
But one day, if they become parents themselves, they'll understand.
As I've grown older, I catch myself saying things my mother used to say. I find myself reacting the way she did. Sometimes I even hear her voice coming out of my own mouth.
She would always tell me,
"You'll understand when you become a mother."
At the time, I would roll my eyes.
How could she possibly know what I would feel?
Boy...
Was she right.
I understand now.
Not because someone explained it to me.
But because I became a mother.
Today, my children are older. They are becoming independent, and I worry far less than I did when they were little. But every now and then, something reminds me that motherhood changed me in ways that never completely went away.
Like hearing about a friend confidently driving through hours of I-95 traffic while I quietly admit that I still hesitate.
Maybe one day I'll make that drive without a second thought.
Or maybe I won't.
Either way, I've stopped seeing it as weakness.
It's simply one of the many ways motherhood rewrote my heart.
Ramblings of a Mother.
I'd love to know: What is something you never understood about your own mother until you became one yourself?
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