Kari Woolf's Blog

How Motherhood Increases Your Capacity to Love, to Nurture and, Eventually, to Sit With Mystery as You Recognise both Your Power and Its Limits

Like many of life’s great callings, motherhood is a complex role full of paradox and contradiction. Mothers are beings of incredible power, strength, grace and vitality — the ability to carry a child to term and bring it into this world is a feat of creational, physical and spiritual-emotional endurance. It is no wonder that the mother is one of humanity’s greatest icons and most revered figures. On the other hand, a mother’s power is both immense, and circumscribed by her human nature. Put very simply, we have the ability to bring life into being, but that does not mean that we understand all of life’s mystery and meaning. We are still human beings, and our ability to perceive truth is framed and shaped by the human condition. This may seem a philosophical, abstract way to look at mothering, but in application, this is one of life’s greatest challenges. It is also, once you understand and make peace with it, one of motherhood’s greatest gifts.

In my own initiation into motherhood, I found the juxtaposition of my incredible power over and simultaneous inability to control my baby to be jarring, unsettling and anxiety-inducing. Feeling powerless in the face of my baby’s suffering, the cause of which may have been obscure to me, took me back to my own childhood feelings of powerlessness in profoundly upsetting ways. I write extensively about my experience with postnatal anxiety in my memoir; it was a period of time that taught me a great deal, even as it ripped me apart.

What I did not fully appreciate was that the power / control paradox was actually just the tip of the iceberg. What this dichotomy hinted at was the greater paradox within the being of mother as goddess-figure (literally a creatrix) and a human suffering from an ability to understand the life she had just brought into being. For me, this contradiction comes most clearly into focus any time my children suffer, and particularly when they are ill. I have many skills that can help them heal and have learned firsthand that truly there is medicine more powerful than my attention, my love, my care, my prayers. They believe that I can fix anything for them, and they appeal to me for help in confidence that I can make it better. Many times, I can. But what I can never do is fully understand why they suffer, why the flower unfolds as it does, why their circumstances are so different from those of other children — even different from their own siblings. I cannot know all, because though bearing life into the world has given me a glimpse of what lies beyond, it has not totally lifted the veil. It anything, motherhood has caused me to realise that I know less than I thought I did; that human understanding is imperfect and, perhaps controversially, perfect understanding is not ours to have.

I think about this paradox not only in the context of motherhood, but in the context of this new age where we endeavour to create artificial intelligence (or “pseudo-intelligence”, as some call it). From Adam and Eve to the techno-innovators of the current age and all of humanity in between, to be human is to seek knowledge. And knowledge awaits our discovery. But perfect understanding? This, I believe, never. Whether we see the unfolding patterns of life as simply coincidences, intergenerational patterns (one paradigm I use in my writing), epigenetic coding, karmic or astrological cycles or algorithms to be programmed, most of us recognise that there is a repetitive nature to the themes of human existence. But who can say why these play out as they do, or what will come next?

In my own experience, it was easier to arrive at meaning before motherhood. There was something about having children and watching them suffer that made me realise that I will never have answers to life’s biggest questions, and actually that is ok. More than ok perhaps it is actually appropriate. The human experience is one of limits, of finality, of endings and beginnings. Endings are all around us, and eventually we all experience our own ending. To be part of the beginning - to guide a new life into this mysterious, obscure experience of life is a privilege, a gift, and most definitely a glimpse beyond the veil.

A glimpse is all we need. It has widened my perspective while humbling me in the face of my own limits — with grace, with love. Because what humanity lacks in perfect understanding, it can achieve in love. Perfect love perhaps also remains in the realm of the heavens alone, but motherhood brings me pretty close. What my understanding may not be able to fix, my love can. That is the immense power of the mother, the line of love that runs through its contradictions and becomes one of its greatest gifts.

I discuss these themes in greater detail in my memoir, No Prayer More Powerful, available wherever good books are sold.

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What Giving Birth in Late December (Twice!) Taught Me About Seasonality

A Degree of Depression is Inevitable

While my doctor, my midwife, my NCT instructors and even my mother cautioned me to expect some level of “baby blues” in the first few weeks of life post-birth, no one prepared me for the lingering blah that hung around for me for months postpartum. Many women experience postnatal depression, but if you live somewhere very far North as I do, a later winter birth leaves you contending not only with a huge drop in hormones, but also a huge lack of sunlight in those first tender months. While yers of living in the UK had familiarised me with the duller rhythm to this time of year, I was unprepared for how jarring this would feel intermixed with the new rhythms of family life. Naps and inclement weather made it hard to get outside, and nights were broken up by my babies’ needs, which conflicted with my own. Waking hours were spent dancing between manic activity and quieter repetitive tasks that could feel tedious. Instead of surrendering to these rhythms and accepting the quieter moments as a call to rest in the darkness of the season, I wearied myself trying to fix everything. Acceptance of my low mood might have allowed it to pass with less meaning attached to it, and even given me more immediate peace.

My Babies Might Also Experience the Baby Blues

The interior life of an infant remains a mystery, but we know that babies are incredibly sensitive and tuned into their mothers. If the cold, the lack of light, the isolation and my own hormonal matrix affected me, it would naturally affect my babies too. Allowing for this possibility would have helped me see their upsets and struggles as a mirror to my own. I might have been able to greet them compassion rather than with gritted teeth and a feeling of helplessness. It may have allowed to me to feel like we were in this together, as part of a team, and taken pressure off of me to know how to fix everything for all of us.

The Natural Inward Pull of This Season Might Shrink External Resources

While hopefully we receive love and practical support from close friends and family, most people head into January exhausted and in need of replenishment. Because I was already disoriented by the newness of motherhood and emotionally unbalanced by my plummeting hormones, it was easy to take any lack of support personally — and overlook the gestures of help that did arrive. I also found that I received many more visits, meals and help with our first — which was amazing, but we really needed it after our twins arrived and our family was crushed by overwhelm. As with any big shifts in life, you may be surprised by who shows up for you, and who is absent; it usually isn’t personal, but it can hard to see that in the middle of the storm. Collectively, our ever-increasing nervous system deregulation can leave even well-meaning, loving friends emotionally depleted and unable to show up as you might like - especially in the post-holiday period when many of us are feeling low.

Vitamins, Nourishing Foods and Warmth are Non-Negotiables

I spent most of the fourth trimester, as it is often called, wrapped in a bellyband — not a waist trainer, but a Japanese warming layer described charmingly and humorously in this book. I wore this not as an attempt to re-shrink my waist (I tried red raspberry leaf tea for that), but in an endeavour to stay warm. I found that post-birth, my body and its preferences had become mysterious to me. Where I was usually cold, I would feel hot (at least so long as I nursed), and other times I could not for the life of me warm up. Our old, poorly insulated house didn’t help; I used to joke that I froze the baby weight off. I remember reaching the lanolin at 3AM and finding it frozen in the tube.

We know so much more about postnatal depletion that we did even ten years ago when I first experienced it. In winter, all the natural world is quiet and at rest, restoring itself, getting ready to bloom. We can take cues from nature and do the same, understanding that this is not a season of natural vitality, and so supplementation and eating well are essential. I wish I had taken this more seriously, and hadn’t been quite so concerned with returning to how I thought I should look.

There is No Prayer More Powerful than the Prayer of a Mother

The quiet struggle of this season is an invitation and an initiation. The job of a mother isn’t to “fix,” but her prayer holds immense power. There are challenges I thought I would never overcome; I thought there would be no end to the suffering of my youngest. But as Mother Julian said, “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” Nothing lasts, and remembering this can help us come into presence with what is. And in presence is where all great change is made.

I write in greater detail about the initiation of motherhood and all the gifts and challenges of my winter births in my memoir, No Prayer More Powerful, now available wherever books are sold.

A post series inspired by @mamamedicine’s recent blog post on her three years without alcohol.

I truly believe that I would not have published my memoir at the end of last year if I were still drinking - even the very little alcohol I was consuming (around 2-4 units / week, at the weekend only).

This May will mark three years without alcohol, and eliminating this substance has been one of the most profound clearings of my life. Unsurprisingly, it came with challenges — some expected, others unforeseen.

Here are just a few of the gifts I’ve received from this choice.

1. Clearing Cultural Programming — An American in the UK’s perspective

Alcohol is a huge part of culture in the UK where I live. I moved here twenty years ago, and I remember how shocked I was to discover the deep integration of alcohol into daily life. Even having lived with a fraternity (I was a Resident Advisor in my North Carolina college and supervised a dorm of frat boys), I was unprepared for the prevalence of drinking in every kind of occasion here, no matter the tone of the event or time of day. Over time (and especially after having children here), English culture has in many ways become my own. As the years passed, I became more accustomed to alcohol as an accompaniment to every aspect of life. You could celebrate your sophistication with fancy wine, or start your girls’ trip to Spain with beers in the airport at 8AM — a wide range of behaviours are totally socially acceptable here, even within the same person. You can be high and low brow with alcohol and it is all treated as part of life’s pleasures — even (or perhaps especially) when that pleasure tips into excess. My experience of American culture is hardly sober, but I do find that there are firmer boundaries around acceptable alcohol use in the land of my birth. The longer I spent in the UK, the more I noticed my own perspective on and perception of “normal” drinking habits change.

Calling it quits has been incredibly confronting for me personally as I reckon with my dual identities (a theme which I explore in greater detail and in other ways in my memoir), and abstain where others go all-out. People I’ve known for a long time become visibly uncomfortable as I stick to mocktails in settings where drinking is centred (so many!), and other friendships have fallen away entirely. There’s still a perception that not drinking is “boring” here, and I admit that when the weather is poor and the light fades quickly, the appeal of drinking is hard to deny. I find myself bored at times, but I’ve been able to reflect on that not as a self-indictment, but an indication of how life flows here, and what that means as someone who wants to make different choices. Life was definitely fuller before I stopped drinking, but the cleansing that has come with releasing this substance from my life has been undeniably positive. I feel I can stand back from the culture and observe what drives these behaviours with a bit more detachment. The change has made it easier for me to consider which parts of my adopted home I want to assimilate into my identity, and which I want to remain aloof from. I’ll also note that as an abstainer, I notice the growing number of alcohol-free cocktail and beer options throughout the UK, so who knows where culture is heading in the longer term.

But foregoing the desire to “fit in” and make my own way has helped me harness the courage I needed to write my story and share it with the world.

2. Strengthening the Creative Process

I doubt I would have a published memoir out now if I were still drinking. While there is a lineage of creatives who use alcohol and other drugs to help them create (or so they say), I find much more resonance in the idea that consistent creativity requires strength and discipline. This doesn’t mean that you can’t have fun! But my own experience has been that even the little I was drinking (between one and two drinks on a Friday and Saturday evening) had a huge impact on my creative flow. The “hangover” isn’t just physical, lasting a day or two. For me, alcohol creates an energetic fug that lingers for days, weeks, months…perhaps even years. I really felt that it took me two full years to clear the entire residue of alcohol from my system. I remember sitting in a sauna and recalling Richard Burton’s diary entries about the “drying out” process. Burton was a talented actor, a magnanimous lover, a cultural icon, a fascinating memoirist (his letters and journals fascinate), and of course, an alcoholic. I latched onto this idea that “drying out” the alcohol would allow other creative juices to flow, and found that it really has some merit. Other creatives feel the same; Coco Mellors shares how sobriety allowed her fiction (and life!) to flourish, and Haruki Murakami writes that novelists need to be physically strong. I put myself in this class, and know that my decision to stop drinking is a choice that will flow into my desire to have a long and fruitful artistic career.

3. Lineage Clearing

More personally, I found stopping the flow of alcohol into my life and system facilitated the lineage-clearing work my memoir wanted to perform. No Prayer More Powerful is a story of initiation and transformation — some of this is personal, but much of this is intergenerational. My life story, as for so many, includes a theme of alcoholism; it has been my work, and the work of my father before me, to leave substance abuse behind, to carry forward the hope that it does not leak its poison into future generations. This work is more than simply saying “no;” in choosing to leave behind a substance that left a deep imprint on my family line, I was given perspective to explore the patterns related to it more clearly. The writing that flowed from this decision has been deeply impactful for me, for my family, and for many of its early readers.

4. Greater Discernment

The obvious consequence of clearing out cultural programming, epigenetic expression / family patterns and generally the influence of an energetically-dense (and distracting) substance has been that I find decision-making easier. Literally and figuratively, my vision has been cleared. As I “dried out,” to use Richard Burton’s words, I’d imagine myself as a dirty rock slowly becoming a clear, translucent crystal. As the muck of a substance thick with scary stories (only a few of them mine) ebbed away, I felt a lightness that went hand-in-hand with decisiveness. This doesn’t mean that I don’t still find myself lost at times (or even frequently), but I can see the light that guides me. It’s easier to simply take the next step. I am less distracted and confused with alcohol completely gone from my life.

5. Building the Next Generation

I’m actually really happy that my children were old enough to consciously observe me give up alcohol and what that process looked like. I decided to stop right as we went on holiday to Greece — a time when most people would enjoy a glass or two of wine with dinner (or for me, a cocktail). In fact, it seemed to me that as we sat down for meals at our hotel, I was the only person in the whole restaurant not drinking. I ordered a drink each of the first three nights, and sat looking at it throughout the meal. But I didn’t drink it. By the fourth night, the desire to even order the drink had passed. My children cheered me on massively during this process, even making me a sticker chart that said “NO!” at the top! Turns out stickers can be as motivational for adults as for children; this really helped me celebrate the passing of the days, then weeks, then months. I’m glad my children have seen me choose better for myself, and I hope that whatever choices they make going forward, ultimately they will absorb the model of someone choosing the harder road towards better health and a fulfilled creative life.

Intergenerational healing is a huge sub-theme of my memoir, and I know I had to live various aspects of this process through in order to crystallise them into a form that others could digest and hopefully integrate.