Motherhood is the strangest thing, it can be like being one's own

Hearken, O seekers of understanding, to the haunting wisdom of Rebecca West, who declared: “Motherhood is the strangest thing, it can be like being one’s own Trojan horse.” In this paradox lies a revelation both tender and terrifying — that motherhood, though rooted in love, carries within it a quiet surrender of the self. Like the fabled wooden horse of Troy, it seems a gift and a victory from the outside, yet within it hides transformation — the breaking open of identity, the birth not only of a child, but of a new and unfamiliar self.

Rebecca West, the great writer and thinker of the early twentieth century, lived in an age when women began to question the boundaries drawn around them by tradition. To her, the Trojan horse was a fitting symbol for the experience of motherhood — a beautiful, noble act that also conceals invasion. The mother, in giving life, allows another being to enter her body, her heart, and her destiny. From within, this child changes everything. The very self that once stood whole is breached, reshaped, and redefined. What was once “I” becomes “we,” and though this union is holy, it is also disquieting — for the woman who was, no longer remains unchanged.

In the mythology of the ancients, the Trojan horse was both a triumph and a trap — a marvel of craft concealing destruction. So too does West’s metaphor carry dual meaning. To become a mother is to open oneself completely, to welcome joy, but also to invite loss of control, identity, and independence. The mother’s love demands that she yield her autonomy to another’s needs, that she give her body, her time, her dreams, so that another may grow. What begins as an act of creation becomes an act of surrender. The Trojan horse thus becomes a vessel — not of deceit, but of transformation. The woman who allows motherhood into her life invites both creation and undoing.

Consider the story of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the author of Frankenstein, who experienced this paradox in flesh and spirit. She gave birth to several children, but only one survived. Out of her love, grief, and identity as both creator and mother, she wrote of a man who gives life and is destroyed by his own creation. Though she wrote of science and ambition, her novel echoes the same truth that West later captured: that to create life — whether through art or childbirth — is to unleash something that forever alters its creator. The mother, like the artist, gives life to what will one day stand apart from her, independent and unpredictable.

In West’s insight, there is neither condemnation nor regret — only understanding. The strangeness of motherhood lies in its dual nature: it is both an act of self-fulfillment and self-erasure. The mother becomes the vessel through which life flows, yet she must also watch that life walk away from her. She is both fortress and open gate, protector and releaser. The paradox is not a flaw, but a truth of existence itself: love, when pure, always carries the risk of transformation and loss.

And yet, within this paradox lies the highest wisdom. For what is more divine than to give life knowing it will outgrow you? The mother’s sacrifice is not a defeat but a triumph of spirit — to be strong enough to open one’s heart, to let it be transformed, and still to love without measure. Like the people of Troy, who could not foresee what their gift would bring, every mother steps into the unknown. But unlike their ruin, her surrender brings creation, growth, and the eternal continuation of life itself.

The lesson, radiant and eternal, is this: creation requires surrender, and love demands transformation. Whether you are mother, father, artist, or teacher, to bring something new into the world means allowing it to change you. Do not fear this transformation; embrace it as sacred. The Trojan horse of motherhood — or any deep creation — may carry both joy and pain, but from its opening emerges the greatest gift of all: the rebirth of the self into something larger, wiser, and infinitely more compassionate.

Thus, let Rebecca West’s words echo through the generations: “Motherhood is the strangest thing.” For in that strangeness lies the essence of divine creation — the mystery of love that builds, breaks, and rebuilds the soul anew.