By Jillian Stacia
@jillianstacia

My toddler son drops my hand and sprints from one tank to the next, captivated by the blue water, the colorful fish, the constant stream of bubbles.

I watch him squeeze his way through the crowd, doing whatever it takes to get as close as possible to the glass. I stay behind the fray, my daughter strapped to my chest, and sway from side to side while my husband does his best to chase after our toddler.  

Eventually, we stop in front of a tank shielded from light. It is the octopus exhibit. A young, exuberant aquarium staff member begins her speech as children scramble for the closest position. 

I have to say, the octopus is beautiful. It’s an inky blue, the exact color of the night sky. Its pale pink tentacles are suctioned to the glass, and its eyes are half-closed. It looks serene, peaceful—totally undisturbed by the onslaught of sticky fingers on the other side of the glass.

I look over in surprise when I hear the guide say that the octopus is a male. But the guide explains that the female octopuses are rarely kept in captivity because they are semelparous animals—meaning they reproduce once and then die. 

“It’s beautiful really,” the guide says. “Her job is to tend to her eggs. She never leaves them. She refuses to do anything but guard them day in and day out. Once they are safely born, she retreats into isolation and dies of starvation.” 

I look at my husband across the room and can see the smile playing across his lips as he slowly shakes his head. I know what he is thinking: “Do not get into a heated debate about motherhood with the college intern who’s just trying to do her job.”

I bite my lip and look back at the guide.

“It’s truly the ultimate sacrifice,” she says. 

My husband stifles a giggle while I turn my back on the octopus. I kiss the top of my daughter’s head and walk towards another tank, frustration rising off of me like steam.

It’s true: motherhood is the ultimate sacrifice. But is it too much to ask to get out alive?

***

A few months later, I’m awakened for what has to be the hundredth time by my daughter in the middle of the night.

I stumble to her room, eyes and brain heavy with sleep. I am in a fugue state while I feed her in the darkness, my head rolling on my shoulders, strands of drool hanging from the corners of my lips. 

When she is finally asleep, I summon the last of my strength to stand and lower her into her crib. I hold my breath as she touches the mattress and back away like an overly exhausted ninja, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard on my way out.

I get back in my bed and am just starting to sink into the sweet, deliciousness of sleep when I hear it: “Mommyyyyyyy!”

My son is awake. 

I look over at my husband. He is asleep. Still. 

I rip off the covers and shake him awake.  

“I’m going downstairs to sleep. You’re on duty,” I say through gritted teeth. 

I stumble down the stairs to the guest bedroom turned storage unit; I kick empty Amazon boxes off the bed and push away old baby clothes. Finally, I crawl under the covers and squeeze my eyes shut.

“I am not an octopus,” is my last conscious thought before I surrender into sleep.

***

My mom stops over to visit a few weeks later. The kids are playing at our feet while we finish the last of our afternoon coffee. 

“How’s the writing going?” she asks.

It’s an innocent question, but not one I want to answer. I haven’t written anything in a long time. 

It’s not like I don’t have a good excuse. My days are packed with diaper changes and potty training and walks around the neighborhood. My mind is overflowing with details about when the baby last ate, when the toddler last pooped, what we’re having for dinner and when I should start cooking it. My body aches from lugging a car seat and a toddler up a flight of stairs every time we leave the house (which, to be fair, is not often). 

To put it lightly, I am exhausted. I am running on fumes. I have no time to write. I barely have time to shower. 

Trying to find time for myself feels like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube. While sleep deprived. 

“It’s not happening,” I reply. “It just doesn’t feel like the right time.” 

Maybe she can sense the shift in the air, or maybe she hears the catch in my throat. Maybe it’s a mother’s intuition. Or maybe she just knows that I’m drowning, and writing has always been my lifeline.

She takes my hand and says, “I think it’s the perfect time.”  

***

I think about the octopus a lot.

Sometimes I wonder what was going through her mind during those early days of motherhood. Was she happy? Overwhelmed? Exhausted? Resentful? 

Did she know how her story would end? And more importantly: would she change it if she could?

Because I feel it, too. The natural pull to surrender to the ocean of motherhood. To fulfill the role that’s been laid out for me. To be the supermom. To give and give and give and then give some more. To pour everything I have into my kids, even if there is nothing left for myself.  

After all, isn’t that the definition of a good mother? Isn’t that what society praises? Doesn’t our culture want me to be an octopus: constant, ever-present, always giving?

But nature always tells the truth. That kind of parenting isn’t sustainable. I’ve seen how this story ends. I know what happens to that octopus. 

I am a mother, yes. But I still have needs. I have wants and desires. I have a wild, animal heart. 

And I refuse to abandon it. Not in spite of my children, but because of them.

I want my daughter to see me write in the early morning hours. I want my son to remember the way I loved to go for hikes alone in the woods. I want them to see me in all my identities and interests and facets: sister, writer, friend, reader, wife, coffee drinker.

And so I choose to be more than a mother. I choose the expansive, bigger, more inconvenient life. Because I believe it makes me a better person. Which in turn, helps me become the kind of mother I want to be: joyful, present, loving, but most of all: alive.

***

I’ve started writing again. It’s not much. Most of it happens in the Notes app on my phone, if I’m being honest. But it's something. It's a start. Telling stories, tinkering with structure, playing with language? It feels like an invitation back to myself. It feels like coming home.

I want my children to know how much I loved them, how much I adored being their mom. I want them to know that motherhood was a privilege and an honor—not a burden or a death sentence.  How better to show them that than by being my fullest, brightest, most alive self? 

The next morning, I let the dishes pile in the sink while the baby watches Blue’s Clues, and I type out a poem on my phone. I stop and smile as my daughter shrieks and my son plays loudly in the other room. 

From the outside looking in, you probably wouldn’t notice that anything was different. It’s a subtle shift but an impactful one. With each word I type, I am carving out space for myself. I am expanding. I am following the beat of my own animal heart. I revel in the beautiful chaos of another ordinary day. 

Think of how much that octopus missed.

Guest essay written by Jillian Stacia. Jillian wants to live in a world where the coffee is bottomless and the sweatpants are mandatory. As a part-time writer and full-time mama, she spends her days corralling words on the page and toddlers in the house. When she's not writing, reading, or snuggling her babies, Jillian loves spending time outside and cheering on the Baltimore Ravens.