REWRITING MY DAYDREAMS: A Mother's Reflection

As a young girl, I often daydreamed of being a wife, living in a beautiful white house adorned with red and pink roses. In my imagination, my husband—whom I named Richard—and I would take evening strolls, hands intertwined, the space between us filled with a love so dense it felt tangible.

Yet, in all those blissful daydreams, I never pictured having a child. I can’t say exactly why, but I know two things for sure: I didn’t like my mother’s experience of motherhood, and the thought of a living being growing inside me—only to be pushed out—felt like something out of a horror movie. Years later, I learned this fear had a name: Tokophobia. Oke afa ne gbu Oke nkita!

Then I grew up, and reality set in. I didn’t marry a man named Richard, and my house barely has a hint of white paint. But what did come was the expectation—the requirement—to become a mother, fueled by society’s relentless pressure to do "the needful." Oh, how I struggled—through the weight of insensitive comments, the coldness of examination tables, the agony of unexplained infertility, the tears spilled in countless sleepless nights praying for a miracle. And then, the miracle came. But so did the postpartum struggles.

At last, I was inducted into society’s elite club: Motherhood. The voices of doubt and condemnation faded. I was now welcome at birthday parties, not just as a guest, but as someone who belonged.

And yet, I’ve often wondered—was becoming a mother truly what I wanted, or did I walk through fire simply to meet society’s expectations? There were days I nursed a silent resentment for the near-death experiences I endured trying to become a mother. For the crushing loss of a fetus that almost became a person. For the way my pain was discussed so carelessly. For how powerless I felt under the weight of it all.

But then, I look at my daughter, and all I feel is deep, unwavering gratitude. The genuineness in her voice when she says, “I love you, Mummy.” The unprompted compliments—“Mummy, you’re so beautiful”—when I’m dressed for work. The uncontrollable laughter when my loud mummy fart escapes its cage. I loved being pregnant. And even in my moments of confusion as a new mother, I’ve come to adore motherhood in ways that words can’t fully capture.

In my next life, my daydreams will have children in them—not because society says they should, but because I want them there. I won’t break myself to have them, but I will embrace motherhood in whatever form it finds me.

Happy Mother’s Day to every woman who dreams of motherhood. Happy Mother’s Day to those mothering with everything they have. You are all gods.

Photography : Eva

Styling: Franka Chiedu

Circa : June 2019