no. 49: becoming the sun

reflections on two years of motherhood

I read somewhere, once, that when you become a mother, you become the sun¹. 

To become a sun is to shoulder a quiet, immense power – the steady pull that not only creates but reshapes an entire universe, leaving nothing untouched by its light.  Even as you weather the chaos of creating a new orbit, you remain the constant celestial being that a new, tiny person raises their face to as they grow, providing life-sustaining warmth, reassurance, and light.  

This isn’t just metaphorical – motherhood changes you on a cellular level, and those changes persist over time. Perhaps this is why it can also be said that when you become a mother, the center of your own universe shifts irrevocably, knocking your center of gravity from everything you once knew.

The world will keep on spinning, the sun rising and setting, but you are never the same.

Before I knew I was ready to become a mother, and before I actually became a mother, I dreaded and resented the platitudes thrown out like candy to people of childbearing age.

When you’re a mom, then you’ll understand.

When you’re a mom, everything will change.

Enjoy that (work, travel, lack of responsibility, other inane things) while you can!

Just wait, just wait, just wait. 

These phrases felt like warnings wrapped in condescension, as if motherhood meant forfeiting selfhood entirely. I hated these interactions, resentful of their suggestion that motherhood demanded a universal loss of autonomy, a universal submission to selflessness. For years I carried a quiet spirit of rebellion, convinced I could simply sidestep it all, carrying on unscathed and unencumbered. 

Belatedly, I am realizing they maybe aren’t warnings, but perhaps a glimpse of a truth too vast to articulate. 

This month, my child turned two.