Philip Larkin’s poem Afternoons ends with a line that has stayed with me for many years. Describing a group of young mothers, he writes that they are being pushed “to the side of their own lives.”
As both a therapist and a mother, I find myself returning to those words from time to time.
Not because motherhood is something to be mourned. Far from it. Many of the women I meet in my practice speak about the deep love, joy and meaning they find in raising their children. I recognise those feelings in my own life too. But alongside them there is often another experience, one that is spoken about less openly: the feeling that somewhere along the way, parts of yourself have quietly slipped out of view.
Motherhood asks a great deal of us. Whether we are balancing work, family life, relationships and the endless mental load that comes with keeping a household running, or whether we are caring for children full-time, there is a constant pull towards the needs of others. Days can become organised around everyone else’s priorities. It can be hard to hear your own voice amidst the noise.
In the therapy room, I often hear my clients speak about feelings they have not felt able to share elsewhere. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Frustration. A sense of loss for the person they once were. The pressure of feeling responsible for everyone else’s wellbeing. These feelings can sit uncomfortably alongside love and gratitude, leaving many women wondering whether they are somehow getting motherhood wrong.
What strikes me is how often mothers feel they should be coping better. As though everyone else has found a way to manage effortlessly while they alone are struggling. Yet beneath the surface, so many women are carrying similar doubts and fears.
There are also the judgements that seem to accompany motherhood whatever path we take. Mothers who return to work can feel guilty for not being present enough. Mothers who stay at home can find themselves viewed as fortunate or privileged. Yet from my experience, both professionally and personally, life is rarely that straightforward. Decisions about work and childcare are often shaped by practical realities, financial pressures and what is possible for a particular family at a particular moment in time. What appears to be a free choice from the outside can feel much more complex from within.
Perhaps this is why I find the work of the paediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott so reassuring. Winnicott introduced the idea of the “good enough mother”, a concept that remains remarkably relevant today. He understood that children do not need perfect parents. In fact, perfection is neither possible nor desirable. Children need parents who are present, loving and human.
Part of being human is getting things wrong.
One of the most liberating aspects of Winnicott’s thinking is his recognition that ordinary parental failures are not signs of inadequacy. We lose patience. We misjudge situations. We miss things. We become overwhelmed. We say the wrong thing. We cannot always meet every need at the precise moment it arises. None of this means we have failed as parents. It means we are human.
I know how difficult it can be to hold onto that idea. Like many mothers, I have spent periods of my life trying to get it all right. Trying to be the perfect mother, while also attending to relationships, responsibilities and the countless demands that arise in everyday life. And like many mothers, life has had its own plans. Curve balls arrive. Circumstances change. Expectations must be adjusted. There have been moments when I have had to return, sometimes reluctantly, to Winnicott’s wisdom and remind myself that “good enough” is not settling for less. It is recognising the reality of being human.
Perhaps that is what Larkin was noticing all those years ago. The way that caring for others can sometimes push our own needs, ambitions and identities towards the margins. I do not believe the answer lies in asking mothers to do more, achieve more or somehow become better versions of themselves.
Instead, I think many mothers need permission.
Permission to acknowledge that motherhood can be both wonderful and difficult. Permission to love their children deeply and still miss parts of their former lives. Permission to feel tired, frustrated or overwhelmed. Permission to have needs of their own.
And perhaps most importantly, permission to be imperfect.
The women I meet in therapy are rarely failing. More often, they are holding extraordinary amounts together while quietly questioning whether they are enough. If there is one message, I wish more mothers could hear, it is that being a good mother was never about getting everything right. It was never about perfection.
It was always about being human.
And sometimes, in a culture that asks so much of mothers, remembering that may be one way of finding our way back from the side of our own lives.