To me, full-time mothering felt like way too much and yet not

Host: The kitchen was dim, lit only by the soft blue hum of the refrigerator and the faint orange glow from the streetlamp outside.
The sink overflowed with bottles and sippy cups. Crayons rolled underfoot like small landmines of domestic warfare. A single laundry basket sat by the counter — not a container anymore, but a monument to exhaustion.

Jack leaned against the counter, mug in hand, steam rising like a fragile ghost between him and the silence.
Across from him, Jeeny sat at the table, hair pulled up, sweatshirt faded, a notebook open before her. The page was blank except for one line written and underlined twice: “Who am I now?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Glennon Doyle Melton once said, ‘To me, full-time mothering felt like way too much and yet not nearly enough. Lost in a landslide of diapers, birthday parties, and others’ needs, I ached to reestablish myself.’”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah… that’s the kind of sentence you don’t read — you remember.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s a truth so many whisper but rarely say aloud.”

Jack: “It’s not just about motherhood, is it? It’s about vanishing inside someone else’s life — and realizing your reflection’s gone missing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The contradiction of care — giving everything until there’s nothing left of you, and somehow being told that should be enough.”

Host: The refrigerator buzzed quietly. Outside, rain began tapping on the window — steady, soft, persistent. The kind of rain that felt like it was eavesdropping.

Jack: “You know, people romanticize motherhood as a halo of sacrifice, but Doyle calls it what it really is — a negotiation with identity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that society tells you to lose gracefully.”

Jack: “And when you don’t?”

Jeeny: “You’re called selfish. As if reclaiming yourself is betrayal.”

Host: She closed her notebook, her hand trembling just slightly. The tension in the room wasn’t anger — it was recognition.

Jack: “You ever think about that paradox — ‘too much and not enough’? That’s the human condition, isn’t it? To feel both overwhelmed and under-fulfilled, often at the same time.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially for women. We’re raised to build nests, then shamed for wanting windows.”

Jack: “Windows?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Views of ourselves — lives beyond the four walls of love and duty.”

Host: The rain thickened, streaking the glass with silver trails. The sound filled the room, a rhythmic percussion of confession.

Jack: “You know, I used to think ‘motherhood’ was a complete identity. But maybe it’s an occupation that devours the person holding it.”

Jeeny: “It’s both — a gift and a gravity well. You love your children so much that you stop orbiting yourself.”

Jack: “And one day you realize you’ve disappeared into a beautiful burden.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the burden doesn’t mean you don’t love them — it just means you remember that you existed before they did.”

Host: The clock ticked. A child’s toy, forgotten on the counter, blinked twice — a stray fragment of a world where chaos and innocence coexisted.

Jack: “You know what Doyle captures so perfectly? That guilt — the guilt of wanting more. The world worships maternal self-erasure and calls it virtue.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But she flips it. She says, you can’t give what you no longer have. To love your children fully, you have to remain a whole person yourself.”

Jack: “So, selfhood isn’t rebellion — it’s maintenance.”

Jeeny: “It’s survival.”

Host: Jeeny rubbed her eyes, the exhaustion of a thousand invisible tasks sitting in the air between them. The kind of fatigue that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from the weight of being indispensable.

Jack: “You ever feel that — the ache to reestablish yourself?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Every day. Between the minutes I don’t belong to anyone.”

Jack: “What do you do with that ache?”

Jeeny: “I write. I remember. I forgive myself for not being everything.”

Jack: “Forgiveness — that’s the hardest revolution.”

Jeeny: “Because it starts inside.”

Host: The rain softened, slowing to a whisper. Somewhere down the hall, the faint sound of a child stirring echoed — small, human, beautiful, and exhausting all at once.

Jack: “You know, Doyle’s line — it’s really about the architecture of identity. She’s saying that love, if it’s all-consuming, becomes another kind of disappearance.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The paradox of devotion — it fills the room but empties the self.”

Jack: “Then the task isn’t to love less, but to return to yourself more often.”

Jeeny: “To keep a small light inside, even when every window’s fogged.”

Host: Jeeny stood, walking to the window. She traced her finger through the condensation, drawing a small spiral — a gesture, a reminder, a reclamation.

Jeeny: “You know, I think what she meant by ‘reestablishing’ wasn’t going back — it was going deeper. Finding the person underneath the mother, not before her.”

Jack: “So motherhood doesn’t erase identity — it buries it until you learn how to dig.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that excavation can feel like betrayal, but it’s actually resurrection.”

Jack: “Resurrection through self-remembering.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light flickered as a car passed outside, its headlights sliding across their faces — fleeting, fragile illumination.

Jack: “You know, in a way, Doyle’s quote could describe anyone who’s ever lived for someone else — parents, partners, caretakers. We all risk dissolving in the service of love.”

Jeeny: “And yet love is what calls us back. Paradoxical, isn’t it? The same thing that erases us is what teaches us to fight for ourselves.”

Jack: “So, selfhood and service aren’t enemies — they’re dance partners.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the music is balance — imperfect, improvisational.”

Host: The child’s cry came softly now, just beyond the door — a small, rhythmic need calling the world back to reality.

Jeeny: (sighing) “Duty calls.”

Jack: (gently) “And so does the self. Don’t forget which voice to answer next.”

Host: She smiled faintly — tired, knowing, alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same voice, Jack. Maybe motherhood isn’t losing yourself. Maybe it’s learning to listen to both cries — the one in the crib and the one in your chest.”

Jack: (softly) “Then the art of living is learning to soothe them both.”

Host: The child’s cry faded. The rain stopped. And for a brief moment, silence filled the room — the rarest sound in a mother’s life.

And within that stillness, Glennon Doyle Melton’s words lingered — not as confession, but as revelation:

That love is not self-erasure,
that the work of care must never eclipse the work of becoming,
and that the truest form of motherhood — and of humanity —
is not martyrdom,
but rebirth.

Host: Jeeny turned off the kitchen light.

The house exhaled. The night resumed.

And somewhere between the cradle and her own heart,
she found a small, steady pulse of truth —
the beginning of herself,
reestablished at last.