When Your Dead Mother Is Your Whole Identity...

What happens when you become a mother?

Dead Mother. Sounds kind of retro, doesn’t it? Like a brand of bootcut hipster jeans that all the cool kids seem to be wearing these days (you know, the one’s that have done so many seasons in fast fashion that they make you feel ancient).

Sadly what I’m talking about is neither cool nor quirky.

There are many reasons it sucks to have your mum die young - the most obvious reason being, well, that she’s dead, and for so damn long it feels like eternity since you last saw her. But a close second is how quickly her death will form a part of your identity, sometimes even your whole identity.

Her death is the thing you are known for.

The most remarkable thing about you.

Let me paint the picture.

“Remember Meera?”

"Who?”

“You know, British Indian, lawyer?”

“Hmmm…I don’t think so…oh, you mean the one whose mum died?”

You get my drift.

Okay, so I’ve not done anything that noteworthy in my life. So far, I hasten to add. I haven’t won an Olympic medal. I haven’t cured cancer. I haven’t been to space. Not even for ten minutes (thank you, Katy Perry for that one). But there are other things I’d like to be remembered for. Bestselling author, for one. Animal obsessed, to name another. But over the many many years (18, if you’re asking) of being motherless, I’ve become the person to call if your [insert relative here] passed away, or the one to ask for advice if you want to offer support to a grieving friend.

I’m not saying I’ve become somewhat of a grief oracle, but…

Speaking truthfully though, I haven’t done myself any favours on that front. There are people who keep their dead mothers/fathers/sisters/brothers closeted away or firmly in their private lives. And that’s totally fine by the way. No one is entitled to your personal trauma, let alone a random person on the internet or someone you’re sitting next to at a dinner party. But I most definitely am not one of those people. It took me years to overcome the denial of losing the most important person in my life and learn to face my grief head on instead of suppressing it. But when I did, I’ve never stopped living and breathing it. It’s not the first thing I talk about when introduced to someone at a party or a work event, but it has been known to be the second or third. I mean I even started an Instagram account a while back exploring the brutal realities of what it means to be a motherless daughter. So let’s just say that my grief book is wide open.

I carry my dead mum identity around like it’s the word’s smallest violin - an all encompassing excuse for, well, anything.

I’m in my overdraft this month because my mum is dead.

I can’t be arsed to cook tonight because my mum is dead.

I was a bitch to my husband this morning because my mum is dead.

The threads of grief and loss are so enmeshed into my core that they inform every single decision I make and consequently, the course of my life. I’ve accepted that this is who I am. And I’d even go as far as saying that I’m proud of who I have become because of everything I have been through.

But that all changed when I became a mum over a year ago.

On maternity leave, your circle inevitably becomes smaller. While everyone else is out there living their 9-5’s and 5-9’s, you exist in a parallel universe of sleep deprived coffee mornings and 3am panic whatsapp messages with your new mum friends. Cracked nipples, blocked ducts, tongue-tie, latching issues, reflux, contact napping, wake windows, overtiredness, nappy rash, poonamis and night feeds become your new vocabulary and it is literally all you can think about. That and sleep (or in my case, the brutal absence of sleep).

Suddenly there is a small, defenceless creature that needs all of you, all of the time. Between feeding, burping, changing nappies and a hurried shower to the soundtrack of a baby crying, there is barely a moment to drink a hot cup of coffee or rub some concealer over your massive eye bags, let alone the emotional and physical turmoil involved in allowing two monumental, life-changing events to co-exist together.

And even when your maternity leave comes to an end and you finally have some sort of childcare under your belt (let’s just ignore the fact it costs at least half of your salary), between work and chasing after your hyperactive, feral toddler, there isn’t room (physically or mentally) for much else.

They say it takes up to 18 months for your body to return to its pre-pregnancy state, two years for your hormones to balance and at least five years for you to discover your new self.

Forget the weeknights out, weekend lie in’s and endless spontaneity that most people miss when they become a parent. What if you’d worked so hard to heal from immense trauma and had finally reached a place of acceptance?

What if your pre-baby identity, though wrapped up in so much pain and heartache is one of the few remaining ways you have to connect with your mum?

What if you aren’t yet ready to let go?