I am a mother now.

I am a mother now.
I am also an artist- 
And somewhere in the middle, there is a version of me I am still getting to know.
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The transformation began with pregnancy, a kind of disorientation that left me both thrilled and confused. My body, once a tool for my artistic expression, became something entirely different — a vessel nurturing new life. It felt like I had become a character in someone else’s story, with my old self slowly fading away. Yet, paradoxically, I found an unexpected joy in this surrender. Every physical change, every tiny kick, felt like a miraculous shift, filling me with a love so profound it seemed almost unreal..

I stepped away from the stage for over two years. In the arts, that’s an eternity. My sister once asked, "How long will you be on maternity leave?" The truth is, my leave began the moment I saw those two lines on the pregnancy test. It wasn’t a decision made in a hospital; it started right then, in that instant of realization. I had to cancel gigs and put projects on hold — the demands on my body were immediate and overwhelming. The idea of “leave” wasn’t just a period of time; it was a complete change in my existence.
When the baby arrived, my life was turned upside down. Sleepless nights blended into long, blurred days as a new reality set in. I clung to the idea that I was still an artist, that my work still mattered. But every time I tried to focus on my art, my mind was consumed with thoughts of my child. Was he happy? Was he safe? What was he doing at home? Being apart from him wasn’t just hard; it felt like I was missing a part of my own body. Those early separations were agonizing, a phantom limb sensation that softened with time but never fully went away. 

Returning to the physicality of performance was its own struggle. I could still go through the motions — muscle memory carried me — but it felt like a shadow of my former self. The strength, fluidity, and confidence I once had felt distant and out of reach. I won’t lie: I miss my pre-motherhood body, the agility, and the sharpness of my mind before fatigue became my constant companion..
One of the biggest realizations I had was how self-centered my life as an artist had been. It was all about me: my needs, my vision, my art. Motherhood flipped that script completely. Suddenly, it wasn’t about me anymore. My desires and ambitions took a back seat to my child’s needs, which became the center of my universe. Surprisingly, I found a kind of freedom in this. It was humbling to no longer be the main character in my own story.

Now, as I think about the future, the urge to return to the stage is strong. I miss the creative process, the adrenaline of live performance, the connection with an audience. But this longing comes with a deep anxiety about what I might have to give up. The thought of missing my child’s morning wake-ups, those precious moments of play and laughter — it tugs at me. Balancing these two worlds feels overwhelming, a constant tug-of-war between who I was and who I am becoming.
For freelance artists like me, this transition is especially risky. Taking time off can mean losing visibility, momentum, and income. In an industry that prizes constant creativity and presence, the choice to have a child feels fraught with fear — fear of being forgotten, of becoming irrelevant. The stakes are high; the consequences, both personal and professional, are daunting.
But this isn’t just my story. It’s a shared experience among countless mothers navigating a world that isn’t designed to support them. Society expects us to bounce back effortlessly, to "do it all" without missing a step. Yet, structural support for working mothers, especially in the arts, is almost non-existent. There’s often no paid maternity leave for freelance artists, no job security, no safety net. Balancing motherhood and a career has become a quiet act of resistance — a statement against a system that forces us to choose.
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Despite the challenges, I find myself the happiest I’ve ever been. There’s a new sense of purpose, a grounding I never quite felt before. I realized the fulfillment I sought on stage was actually waiting for me in the quiet, intimate moments with my child. The feeling of being needed, of belonging to something larger than myself, has brought a lasting joy I didn’t know I was missing.
I also discovered something unexpected: there’s no time anymore to dwell on my own worries or feelings of sadness. My days are filled with the needs of my child, leaving little room for introspection. And strangely, I find comfort in this. It reminds me of something my grandmother once said: that people today are unhappy because they have too much time to think. It might sound harsh, but for me, this constant focus on someone else has been a kind of salvation. When I’m working, I’m fully present, and when I’m with my child, I’m fully there too.

Balancing my roles as mother and artist feels impossible at times. But maybe that’s where the real growth happens — in the messy, beautiful intersection of these identities, in the constant tension between love and ambition. It’s a delicate dance, imperfect yet profoundly human. Perhaps this new chapter is where the true art lies — in embracing the chaos, in the vulnerability of starting over, and in the raw, unfiltered love that drives everything I do.