Embracing the Shadow: Healing My Teenage Self Through Motherhood
Sitting in the dark of a plane, in that liminal space between departure and destination, I recognize that I have successfully left my child for only the second time in our lives. Fellow passengers’ lights blink on, but in the disorientation of the separation from my child, I allow my mind to wander in the dark.
One year postpartum and a few months into a stint of stay-at-home parenthood, I find that I am once again thinking of the word matrescence. This is unsurprising; the term, first used by anthropologist Dana Raphael in the 1970s to describe the developmental process of becoming a mother, has gained increasing attention in the past few years.
Perhaps it’s Chelsea Conaboy’s journalism on the monumental shifts that occur within the maternal brain, those upheavals playing out in my own psyche, or maybe it’s the internet feeding me an algorithmic dose of new mom material.
Whatever the source, or the reason, for the arrival of this new-to-me term on the scene, I appreciate what we’ve known to be true for a long time: language shapes our experience of the world. Words give us legitimacy, shared understanding, and a container for an otherwise nebulous and fickle flurry of emotions and thoughts. The capricious nature of these thoughts may feel especially apparent in the postpartum haze; perhaps this is another reason why the term seems so sticky in my mind and others.
Linguistically, the term matrescence evokes adolescence. Theoretically, too: I am struck over and over by the parallels drawn between the neurological, psychological, and sociological shifts of adolescence and early motherhood.
And, as an educator whose professional life has centered on adolescence — or, more accurately, adolescents themselves — I find myself revisiting this period of life from a different angle. I wonder, is motherhood a portal to adolescence? An opportunity to revisit this vulnerable and formative and earth-shattering period of life?
When I find out I’m pregnant, I explain to my therapist that I suddenly feel like a teenager again. Emotionally fragile, bloated, and bone-crushingly tired. I had a prolonged case of mono when I was 16, and the fear that I would never, ever feel energized again came racing back during my first trimester.
At 16, I was a high achieving, over-scheduled “scholar athlete.” Ten days after being diagnosed with mono, I returned to the lacrosse field where I attempted to run three hundred yard shuttles at the pace and speed at which I was accustomed to moving. I was bewildered — and scared — when my heart rate skyrocketed and my whole body started trembling. When my vision got blotchy, someone (a coach? a player?) pulled me aside and sat me down on the grassy hill to regain my composure. A teammate walked by and told me it might take some time to feel like myself again. I was too humiliated to receive this act of generosity, given so freely by a fellow 16-year-old.
In the following months, I proceeded to force myself through the motions of my demanding schedule. That summer, while taking a short walk on the beach, I needed to sit down. I found a large rock near the jetty, warmed by the sun, and promptly fell asleep. My exhaustion laid bare right there in public, in the middle of the afternoon. By the time I woke up, I was dazed and groggy, unsure how much time had passed. I looked around at the changing tide and the sun making its arc towards the horizon and knew I wouldn’t be able to return home with my absence unnoticed.
Parental concern followed. What’s going on? We need to wake you up! Even your metabolism seems to be slowing down. What happened?
At 31, in my therapist’s office, she gently reminds me: but this time you’re not a teenager.
Meaning, that was a long time ago.
Meaning, you have the skills and perspective of adulthood to help you navigate this.
Meaning, thank god.
Motherhood can be healing, I read while four months pregnant. This line shifts something within me. I have focused so much on all of the ways I could fail as a mother, how all of my worst fears about myself could be confirmed. But I haven’t yet considered what could be healed.
For years, I decided that I didn’t want to think about high school, despite truly delighting in the experience of working with adolescents. From the outside, my adolescence was pretty peachy; from the inside, it was often a fraught, anxious, lonely affair.
There’s always a shadow side, I suppose.
And this is my work, my therapist reminds me. To claim my shadow self.
But revisiting these years – and the emotions therein – is gut-wrenching work. Even Jung, when describing the psychological shadow, writes: “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. The latter procedure, however, is disagreeable and therefore not popular.” I think about becoming a mom, and suddenly, it is, however, necessary. Jung’s question hovers in the air: “How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow? I must have a dark side also if I am to be whole.”
One day when my child is six months old, I am hit with the sudden and indelible thought: She will be an adolescent someday. This momentarily crushes me. No! I don’t want her to feel those things. She’s so pure and trusting and whole.
And then I sit with the self-reckoning. Me, an educator who has sat across from countless parents, coaxing them to set down their own fears and experiences in order to see their child as they are. The one reminding them that their child is doing their developmental work. That adolescence is full of growth. That their child’s behaviors are normative and expected responses to life’s stressors. Don’t panic, I assure them. Let them learn. Mistakes are essential. They’re doing their job.
Then I look in the mirror, already panicking.
Clearly, for me, there is no escaping this psychological return to adolescence. Turning towards it, I humble myself. What do you have to teach me?
During adolescence, we wander into the shadows. In our travels we meet the characters of the night: aggression, fear, shame, grief, laziness, desire, selfishness, ambition, loneliness, heartbreak. We transgress, yes, but also transcend. All the while, we vehemently reject the offers of our parents to walk alongside us, loudly declaring our separateness in the darkness.
And then, tragically, many of us – perhaps especially those of us socialized as young women – learn to hide our nighttime travels to the dark places of the soul. We bury the memories within ourselves, turning unrelentingly to the daytime work of approval and achievement. We don’t realize that we’ve abandoned parts of ourselves, and the essential wisdom these parts hold.
When my daughter was born I was so unconditionally and overwhelmingly in love that I immediately, immediately, perhaps for the first time in my life, got to touch a place within myself that can feel that infinite love towards myself, too. It is a moment of clarity that I will forever cherish.
My days-old daughter gave me this window into a teeny tiny part of myself that could love teenage me. The me that hurt myself and hurt others, that tried so very hard, so very often, that twisted and contorted and A-plussed myself into an easy, appeasing, successful-but-approachable person.
Oh my goodness, maybe it wasn’t the mono. Maybe I was just tired.
Maybe I can love that little girl, because she ultimately gave me my little girl.
I look at my daughter, the way she inhabits and delights in her body, and it fills me with both unabashed joy and heartbreak. When do we forget what our bodies were made for?
I watch her explore our home with endless curiosity, followed by a goofy giggle and a roll to the floor. Moments later, she is melting down, overtired and unwilling to get her diaper changed. And I just love her. I really and truly do. The belly-laugh-inducing and exasperating parts of her. There is no part of her I will ever not love.
The truth is, I know I can’t control how she feels in her body when she’s 16. I can’t, despite my best efforts, guarantee that she will automatically love all parts of herself. This is the root of my fear of adolescence for her, knowing I can’t protect her from the things she might think or feel about herself. It’s why my breath caught in my throat when I thought of her going through it.
But here’s another truth. Adolescence is painful. It is also thrilling, transformative, capacity-building, and joyful. It’s not one thing. The changes in the brain and body move the heart and soul. This is true of matrescence, too. Time slows down and speeds up, memories are heightened, new ways of viewing the world unfold. Pain and pleasure need each other. We can claim both.
I now understand the inevitability of this return to adolescence; I see it as a reunion of sorts. In mothering my daughter, I can feel all the past me’s in need of mothering. And I am learning so much from this little being, so packed with zest and emotion and promise. She is a reminder of what’s in all of us. Of what it means to be human.
And perhaps both adolescence and matrescense are temporary moments when we are acutely in touch with the human experience. The shadow and the sun of it all.
Cover photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash
About the Author
Liza (Wetzel) Ruggiero graduated summa cum laude from Tufts University with a BA in clinical psychology and child development, and later went on to earn her MA in professional psychology from William James College. She has served in a variety of counseling and teaching roles and has supported numerous adolescents and adults in making choices that capitalize on their strengths and promote their wellbeing. Drawing on her expertise in psychology, mindfulness, and yoga, Liza’s work focuses on cultivating inner growth, self-compassion, and greater self-awareness.
