It’s 11 a.m. and I’m still in pajamas crusted with rapidly souring breast milk. Next to the kettle is a cup of congealing tea. I’m ravenous and I need a poop. Instead, I’m sitting on my unmade bed with a 2-month-old baby who only ceases her attack on my chapped nipple to scream for reasons unknown.
This is not the Shea who used to get up at 5 a.m. to go for a run, followed by a breakfast smoothie with chia seeds, and be at my standing desk by 7:30 a.m.
“You can do anything you set your mind to,” we sheltered kids of the ’90s were told. And I was that annoying person who did.
Start my own business: Why not? Complete an Ironman? Sure, just as soon as I’ve finished this 100-mile race. Chase a sunrise after a big night with friends? Count me in. Write a book on the side while doing all of the above? Sounds like a plan.
“Hi, I’m Shea, and I’m addicted to achievement.”
Becoming a mom changed all of that.
I lost my ability to over-achieve but learned a valuable life lesson in return
From the beginning, motherhood didn’t come easy to me — and I mean from the very beginning. It took two years of fertility treatment and more money than I’d like to mention before I even got pregnant.
Eventually, I had what I wanted, worked, and paid for, right there in my arms — and I felt like a failure. Despite being the ultimate “doer of hard things,” I was finding this deeply human, painfully natural experience such a struggle.
Later, still in pajamas, I watched my husband leave for a squash match with the kind of casual freedom you only notice when you’ve lost it. First, I wanted to slam the door behind him; second, I realized the frustration I felt wasn’t toward him but myself and what I could no longer do.
I couldn’t get lost in a writing project. I couldn’t go out dancing until my feet hurt. I couldn’t run until my toenails fell off.
I couldn’t just flit off to play a squash match and round it off with the ice-cold draft beer I’d been craving for a year.
All I could do was feed, change, and hold a baby. Feed, change, hold. Feed, change, hold. Feed, change, hold. Sure, my husband helps with holding and changing, but I’m bound as the feeder.
A few days later, we were invited to dinner with friends. It had been a day like any other (i.e. a tough one), and I was overwhelmed by the thought of getting the baby ready, strapping her in the car, finding a place to breastfeed, and lugging around a diaper bag.
Normally, I would have hardened the hell up and made it happen. For once, I decided to just say no. No excuses; just no, thank you. We won’t be joining for dinner.
And for the first time, I wondered: What if success isn’t about doing more, but about doing less?
I had to unlearn the supermom myth
I’ll admit, this revelation didn’t come to me in an instant moment of clarity, which was few and far between in the fog of new mothering. It came, slowly as I started to unlearn the supermom myth that I’d been so keen to subscribe to.
Having my daughter forced me to be present. When you’re using two hands to feed a baby, two hands to change a baby, and two hands to hold a baby, there are no other moments in which to live.
Nine months on from that feral morning, there are a lot more things I can do. I’m working (until 3 p.m.), I’m running (short distances), I’m socializing (in bed by 9). Despite being back in the real world, there are things that I now choose not to do.
I choose not to work on my phone. I choose not to attend every event. I choose not to chase the next goal like it’s the only thing that matters.
I once defined success by finish lines crossed, projects completed, and goals crushed. Now, I find it in the quiet moments where I’m fully present, right here, right now. Because when you stop trying to do it all, you start doing what matters most.
In this season of life, I am someone else’s world. The rest of the world can wait.
