Motherhood: Messiness

by Grace Ko in ,


Recently, I was “talking” to a friend (in quotes because it wasn’t talking in the conventional face-to-face sense but through an app called Marco Polo, of which I am very grateful for helping me stay in touch with friends across the world) about all the “gray” in motherhood. The conversation was sparked by a post I had seen titled “To the mom who loves motherhood—but misses her freedom, too” and something about it resonated so deeply with me.

As moms, we’re always in tension.
We love our children and cherish our time with them but simultaneously miss our freedom, our bodies, our time.
We feel fully the weight of the honor to bring these little beings earthside, to have them utterly dependent on us, to raise them, to have them trust us, but this weight can also be crushing at times. It’s not always rainbows and sunshine.
We’re thankful but we’re tested.
We’re overjoyed but also overwhelmed.

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Motherhood isn’t black and white. It’s not “this” or “that”. It’s messy. It’s complicated.

Over the years, I’ve been learning to embrace the complexities, the gray. But we all need a reminder sometimes.

So this message is for all you mamas (myself, included).
Just because we miss and yearn for the bygone days doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the current “here and now”. If anything, we’re fully feeling it all, fully present in the good, the bad, and the ugly.
It’s kind of like this: In the movie “Inside Out”, Riley’s core memories are filed away as one of the following: joy, sadness, anger, disgust, fear. But later (spoiler alert), the feelings realize in “Headquarters” that Riley can benefit from emotional polarities and that she can experience multiple feelings at the same time.

In life, we all flit and flutter between emotions but especially so in motherhood. When we allow ourselves to feel our emotions, all of them, however mixed and messy they are, it doesn’t make us “weaker” but actually makes us stronger and fuller.


For light, for hope, for love

by Grace Ko in ,


I blinked and baby boy turned one.

Last weekend, we celebrated his 돌 (dol: a Korean tradition celebrating baby's first birthday). I was running around like a headless chicken with preparing for the party (remind me, why did I think it would be a good idea to do everything ourselves...?) that my heart and my head were not able to process the weightiness of reaching this milestone.

As I jogged my brain of all the happenings this past year, in the midst of celebrations, my heart felt a strange sadness. "Joy", "wonder", "bliss" - these are often the words used to describe the magic of motherhood. But no one told me how much "grief" would be part of it. A grieving, knowing you'll never have that particular moment, that day, that stage, that season again. And so I have desperately wanted to catch them, document and capture them, encapsulate them into bottles to be stored in my memory's shelves, in the recesses of my heart to be cherished and revisited.

I've grappled with the idea of permanently gluing my phone to my hand as to not miss a moment, while my instincts have whispered gently, "Be present, be fully present." I've struggled with fully "momming" while realizing "mom" is not all of who I am. I've contemplated about "community", what it means, how it's changed, what I want it to look like.  I've struggled with the fact that others may see my life and think "She's got it all", dismissing me of any "right" to share, but inside there are deep questions of identity, calling, feelings of loneliness, anger, jealousy and fear.

I've been at my parents' this past week, resting, recovering from all the festivities and the prepwork leading up to it all. While here, Y and I took J on his first visit to an art museum. Exhibits named "Nostalgia" and "Light" stirred emotions and the courage in me to write this post. We strolled along, reflecting on how with light comes shadow and how light brings things from the dark to the surface. Without darkness, we would not appreciate light.

I've spent much time wondering why I was struggling with so-called "dark" feelings in a season that has been so full of joy. But Henri Nouwen's words in Reaching Out spoke volumes to me:

We do not have to deny or avoid our loneliness, our hostilities and illusions. To the contrary: when we have the courage to let these realities come to our full attention, understand them and confess them, then they can slowly be converted into solitude, hospitality and prayer.
— Henri Nouwen

J was born on Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. We spent the actual day reading him books on Dr. King's life, listening to his "I have a dream" speech and I picked up my calligraphy brush pen for the first time in a while to write these words:

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I leave to return home with heart refreshed and hope restored.