I still remember the first time I visited the farm I now call home. I rode in the passenger seat and watched the miles of highway give way to gravel roads. We kept driving and driving and driving. It was pitch black out, and the city lights grew smaller and smaller behind us until they were gone. I knew my boyfriend lived out of town—but I had no idea how far. We kept going, and the signal bars on my phone kept dropping, one by one, until finally—there was no service.
Months later, we were engaged, and I memorized this route on drives to visit him on his family’s farm from the city where I worked, hours away. I had a romantic view of what life would be like way out in the country: sunset rides in the combine during harvest and unobstructed sunrises over the vast prairie. But in those days I would drive those same roads back into town—to my apartment with neighbors, a coffee shop, and a grocery store just down the block.
***
In the months leading up to my first baby’s birth—now living on the farm—I read the baby books and waddled up and down the aisles of Target, filling my cart with all the “must-haves” that my sister and friends told me the baby would need. I prepped for the days after the baby was born with pads, freezer meals, and comfy clothes.
At my baby shower, the women wrote notes to “sleep when the baby sleeps” and “to snuggle the baby, as it goes so fast.”
I nodded and smiled, placing my hand on my round belly, all the ladies oohing and ahhing over the onesies and soft blankets. I held up the tiny sleepers, still in disbelief that soon I would be holding my baby and that he or she would be small enough to fit in this unbelievably small outfit.
But no one mentioned the loneliness or isolation I would feel in the early days and years of motherhood. And I had no idea how isolating rural life would be on top of the loneliness that so many other moms experience.
***
Shortly after becoming a mom, I discovered podcasts and dove head-first into “mom media.” I joined Facebook groups for moms and started following many parenting websites. Soon, I was enjoying those long drives to town with all my new “friends” in my ears. I heard stories from seasoned and new moms, commiserating and nodding along to our shared experiences.
In a way, I felt a little less lonely. The voices became familiar; they were the friends I could sit down with any time of day—no matter that I was miles away from another person. But sometimes, the advice I heard was a stark reminder of how different my motherhood experience was.
“Grab take-out on Friday night!”
“Have your husband pick up a pizza on his way home from work!”
“Swap babysitting with a friend once a week!”
“Meet a friend for coffee before your baby naps!”
I couldn’t drive down the street to meet a friend for coffee with our strollers in tow—our nearest neighbors are my inlaws and they live a 10 minute drive away on a gravel road. Going to the park to get out of the house for a few minutes was a half-day adventure that screwed up nap schedules, and sometimes it just felt like more work than it was worth. There wasn’t anyone I could swap babysitting with. And my husband works on our farm, an hour from take-out food and pizza delivery.
I couldn’t relate to any of these suggestions. All of a sudden, I felt even lonelier.
Did all the other moms have it easier than me?
***
Recently, on a drive home from town, I hit play on a podcast. I was alone in the car, and the sun shone brightly against the fresh snow. I couldn’t help but notice how the glistening snow looked like millions of diamonds covering the fields. I cranked up the seat warmers, enjoying this rare moment of quiet on a beautiful day.
The mom on the podcast talked about her daughter with disabilities, her voice cracking remembering the years they spent trying to find a diagnosis—their daughter unable to walk or talk. She talked about the weekly therapy appointments, how their lives have changed, and the grief she walks through each day with a life they didn’t dream of.
I pressed pause and let her words soak in. Now that I’m not in the trenches of new motherhood, I could see more clearly: I had felt alone in my rural living situation, but so many moms parent through situations that leave them feeling like mainstream parenting advice doesn’t “fit” their family.
The single mom who has little support and is parenting alone.
The mom whose spouse is stationed overseas, leaving her worried and alone.
My mom, who became a motherless mother at 23, who spent every Mother’s Day, holiday, and every day in-between without her mother—while she learned to mother.
The moms who have children with disabilities and their kids aren’t hitting milestones like their peers.
Big families. Adoptive parents. Parents of one child.
I imagine those moms often can’t relate to motherhood on social media, either. I imagine they feel lonely when it seems like everyone else is wading through the same waters and their situation places them outside the mainstream.
For the longest time, I clung to the hope that motherhood was a simple equation. If I just had XYZ—consistent childcare, take-out, and a coffee shop down the street—then poof! Motherhood could be a snap!
But in reality, motherhood is so much harder than that, and it’s hard for all of us—no matter the circumstance. Sure it would be nice to open my front door to find a hot cup of coffee left by a friend with a doughnut and a note of encouragement. Or to have the ability to drop my kids off at daycare, so I could have a few hours to work or to be alone. But, I think of all the beautiful things I do have: my kids growing up on our farm and getting to work alongside their parents, the acres and acres they have to roam, and yes, the sunrises and sunsets—which continue to amaze me.
Although I’ll never fully be able to understand all the situations other mothers experience, it’s comforting to know there’s not one “normal” way to go through motherhood. It’s also easy to forget what I see online and hear in podcasts isn’t the whole picture. Every mother struggles—everyone’s hard looks different.
And when I focus only on what’s different in my motherhood experience—I miss out on what’s beautiful around me.
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