The Body Knows : Rewriting the Story of Motherhood From the Inside Out
There’s this quiet myth floating around that when we become mothers, we’ll just know how to do it. Like it’s hardwired. Like it’ll click.
Sometimes it does. But often, motherhood feels more like being thrown into a new country where we don’t speak the language—but everyone expects us to lead the tour.
The truth is: motherhood is a full-body experience. It’s physical, emotional, hormonal, relational, existential... and we’re expected to carry it all gracefully while making school lunches and remembering where everyone left their shoes.
After my first was born, I remember looking down at my giant boobs, my alien-like stomach, and feeling my joints still sloshing around—and thinking, Okay… now what? Is this what we walk around in for the rest of our lives? I was sore from the feat of strength I’d just pulled off the day before, and completely unprepared for what came next. Except for the soreness, the crying (mine and his), and the sense that there was no one else to call on but me—and this strange new body. I figured we’d better make friends.
Before we mother anyone else, we are mothered—or not—through our own bodies. Our very first relationship, with our own mothers or caregivers, was wordless: rhythm, scent, tone, touch. Now, we become that rhythm for someone else—and our own bodies become the terrain of that relationship.
Pregnancy, birth, feeding (or not feeding), holding, chasing, calming—it’s all through the body. And yet somehow we’re taught to push the body aside. To “bounce back.” To ignore the fact that our nervous systems, our sleep, our organs—everything—has been rearranged.
We’re Still Growing, Too
Here’s something no one tells you: as our babies develop, we do, too.
The five basic developmental movements—yield, push, reach, grasp, and pull—are not just things babies do on a playmat. They’re the movements of motherhood itself.
We yield to the moments that ask us to slow down, soften, surrender (again).
We push for space, for support, for a shred of alone time.
We reach for connection, for comfort, for clarity.
We grasp the things that anchor us: the giggle, the snuggle, the truth.
And we pull ourselves back from the edge, gather our strength, and begin again.
These movements aren’t just physical—they live in our nervous systems, our emotions, our relationships. And sometimes? We get stuck. Therapy, especially the kind that works with the body, can help us gently notice where we’ve frozen, where we’ve overextended, and where we can start moving again.
Because just like our kids, we’re still growing, too.
In part two, we’ll look at how different cultures support (or don’t support) this massive transition—and why it’s not your fault if it feels impossibly hard.