Who Mothers Mommy?

While I was reading Brain-Body Parenting by Mona Delahooke, I came across the question: “Who mothers mommy?”* This simple sentence sent me on a reflective spiral. It’s one of those truths that sits quietly under the surface of motherhood, and once someone names it, you can’t un-hear it.

So I ask again, Who does mother mommy?

Women are raised (socially, culturally, generationally) that as a mother you must accept martyrdom as part of the role. We’re fed the idea that a “good mom” pours endlessly, gives endlessly, stretches endlessly. But the reality is when our nervous system is pushed past its limits and our body budget is scraping bottom, we can’t show up in the way our children need. We’re trying to co-regulate from a place of depletion, running on fumes, pretending we’re fine.

And here’s the tricky part… you can be surrounded by people, friends, relatives, a partner, and still feel alone.

Support isn’t just about having people around. It requires two very real things:

a) That we, as moms, allow ourselves to be vulnerable enough to actually ask for help. 

b) That the person we’re asking has the capacity (emotionally, mentally, energetically) to give it.

And honestly? Both are fragile.

Everyone is busy. Everyone is overwhelmed. Everyone is dealing with their own mental load. But the hardest piece for me isn’t that other people lack capacity, it’s that I struggle to ask in the first place.

Because I’ve asked before and sometimes I was forgotten.                                             I have explicitly said “I am not okay” and nothing happened at all.

Sometimes the help required so much direction, step-by-step instructions, and emotional labor to manage the process that it became more work than doing it myself.

So what happened? My nervous system (designed to protect me) tucked all of that away as “evidence” and now it flinches at the idea of asking again.

Vulnerability followed by disappointment hits so much harder than just handling everything on my own.

Society doesn’t help. We’re surrounded by messages that mothers should be grateful, glowing, joyful, endlessly patient while also doing everything without complaint. And when you combine that expectation with past experiences of being unseen or unsupported, it shapes the way we move, the way we ask, the way we cope.

So how do we shift this? How do we rewire our brain-body connection to allow space for support? How do we build circles that don’t feel judgmental or unreliable? How do we redefine self-care so it actually cares for us?

Because the version of self-care that moms are handed is often a trap. “Go out! Take a break!”

Sounds amazing… until you walk through the door after your time out and find dishes in the sink, spaghetti stuck to the table, toys everywhere, and a child who hasn’t fallen asleep yet. So the break you took becomes a bill you pay later, at 9 p.m., exhausted and resentful.

Real support, the kind that actually mothers the mom, is so much simpler than that.

It’s someone truly seeing you.

Noticing without you explaining.

Stepping in without being asked.

This says, I’m paying attention. I see how much you’re holding.  

Because when someone helps without you having to ask, it doesn’t feel like nagging or micromanaging. It feels like being cared for.

And maybe that’s what we’re all craving: to feel held, just a little. To be on the receiving end of the tenderness we pour into everyone else. To be mothered, not in a patronizing way, but in a human way.

I wish I had the answers. But I don’t.

But maybe everything begins with naming the truth out loud? Because this isn’t just a personal struggle, it’s a systemic story that mothers have inherited for generations. And maybe the unlearning starts here.

*Brain-Body Parenting by Mona Delahooke Suniya Luthar (135).