The Words I Couldn't Receive
By Jenna Brack
@jennabrackwriting
Only weeks before my oldest son was born, we moved into a new home. Desperate for affordable furniture to fill up the space, I visited a local thrift store and antique market. While carefully squeezing my belly through the store filled with knick-knacks and repurposed furniture, I fell in love with a small, vintage Ethan Allen rocker.
I’ll give it to you for $50, the seller said, which was a significant investment for me at the time. But the living room was still half-empty and the baby would be arriving soon, and I needed some places to rock him. I paid cash and placed the golden rocker in front of the fireplace on old wooden floors.
Weeks later, I sat in that chair with a newborn pressed against my chest, rocking, rocking, rocking, while the child in my arms kept his eyes open to the world around him. As it turns out, the rocker quietly creaked with each movement back and forth. Summer light fell across the hardwoods while I stayed inside, dutifully following the rhythm of sleeping, feeding, and waking I had been told by the internet was my ticket to new-mom success.
But in those early days, nothing seemed to be working. Only weeks before, I had stepped away from a job at a university where I had some sense of competence about my daily efforts. Now, alone all day with an infant, recovering from a hard delivery, I questioned my abilities:
Why wasn’t he sleeping?
Why did I feel so flustered?
How many hours was I going to have to sit alone in this house, stuck in this creaky rocker?
The sleeplessness, long days, isolation, body changes, even later-diagnosed postpartum anxiety—those were real challenges. But there was an even heavier burden inside my mind and heart, an unwanted, creaking subtext to my early mothering days: the feeling that I shouldn’t be struggling, at all. The sense that I should be doing much better than I was.
A neighbor down the street—a mom several years ahead of me—witnessed me flailing during that season. One afternoon, while we sat in her living room with my baby playing on a blanket, she affirmed how much transition I was experiencing:
“Your entire life just changed,” she gently told me.
If there was a rewind and pause button for our lives, I would go back and press it, right there. I would allow myself to soak up the weight of those words—to take a long, slow look at the landscape around me, and see that I had just embarked on a journey that would take years to fully unfold. I would let myself cry, or at least notice that my friend was offering me a chance to accept the generous wisdom of grace.
Instead, my internal resistance bristled. I did not want anyone to notice that I was indeed having a hard time, so I brushed off her words and changed the subject. Unable to receive the kindness offered by my wiser mom friend, I went home and kept gently rocking my baby, but I could not extend the same gentleness to myself.
***
Soon, I will enroll that baby in middle school. He regularly stands next to me with his curly blond locks pressed to my face and measures how many inches he has left until he outgrows me. (Only three.) The scenery has changed—not only are we officially past the little years, but we’re also far from that old house. We are living overseas, navigating a season of cross-cultural living.
Recently, I stood in the doorway of our kitchen, chatting with my kids about their days. My son was kicking a soccer ball back and forth across the living room as we talked, while my daughter spread crafts and snacks across the table. Three in the afternoon in Germany is the beginning of the day in the States, when text messages begin arriving and work emails pile up in my inbox like the overflowing dishes in the sink. While I tried to listen to my kids’ stories, I also wondered what we would have for dinner (frozen pizza?) and how I would feed everyone before basketball practice while I prepared for an evening meeting. Mid-afternoon is currently the most difficult transition point in my day, with the kids getting home from school at the same moment my time-zone stretched work life ramps up—all sorts of responsibilities coalescing into the back half of the day. Without warning, a familiar feeling rose up: I’m not doing this well.
I’m not spending enough time with my kids. I’m too distracted. I shouldn’t feel like it’s still so hard to keep up across time zones, manage a consistent writing schedule, or understand taxes in two different countries. I should know more German by now, or at least what we are having for dinner.
But then, something surprising happened: I remembered the older mom’s voice from those fledgling days of motherhood.
Your entire life changed.
Over a decade since she extended those words, the thought landed differently this time. Instead of brushing it away, I hit pause on my real, in-the-moment life. I looked right at my son’s pre-teen face as he talked and kicked the soccer ball, surveyed our chaotic living room and the growing children and the mess of snacks and paper spread across the table. For a moment, I acknowledged all we have come through together—painful goodbyes, new hellos, adjusting to a different culture, the way we have been creating new rhythms and paths. I took a breath and said to myself: We’re doing this. Here we are, living.
***
Now that the little years are behind me and I can survey them with the benefit of hindsight, I must confess that I do have some regrets, although they are not exactly what I expected them to be. I do not regret that I was poor at establishing sleep routines and keeping everyone on a schedule, although that would have made life easier. I do not regret that I did not make my own baby food or that I took my time getting back into a workout routine. I do not even regret the day I let my daughter throw confetti all over the kitchen, although I do recall having some regrets while trying to clean it up.
Only one regret lingers from those years: I regret being so hard on myself. I regret that I could not see how hard I was working in the midst of what is, in any circumstances for any mother, a massive transition. If I could return to those long days in that creaky rocker with my baby, I would give myself a moment to acknowledge all the ways we were growing—both of us.
***
In line at a small French bakery, a mother waits for her daily baguette while carrying a baby in a wrap on her chest. On a tram, a mother navigates a stroller through a tightly-packed crowd, carefully maneuvering without bumping anyone. On a German train, a mom plays cards with her kids to keep them entertained. In the hair salon, my stylist chats about her older kids, and how they are navigating new freedoms and challenges. As I observe us going about our daily rhythms, I want to press pause for all of us, to give us a moment to recognize the ways we are leading children through the world in all of its complexity, and the ways we are changing ourselves.
***
We sold the Ethan Allen rocker just before our overseas move. The chair had become a favorite for the kids; in particular, my son had grown to love that little rocker, adopting it as his sprawling spot of choice while watching shows or reading. But loved as it was, it had gained new stains and more creakiness, and we had to make difficult decisions about what would stay and go. One night, a buyer from Facebook marketplace came, handed me $20, and carried it away.
Although I can’t return to that season or place—the scenery is new, the children keep growing, the furniture keeps getting repurposed—even my regret softens when I remind myself what hasn’t changed: the grace and kindness available to me, now. It’s still right here, ready for the receiving.
Guest essay written by Jenna Brack. Jenna is a writer, teacher, and celebrator of the arts. Her creative work has appeared in Fathom, Every Day Poems, The Sunlight Press, Mothers Always Write, and others. You can connect with her on Instagram and read her occasional musings on Substack.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.