From Sunsets in India to Spit-Up Stains: Finding Whole in the Monsoon Mist of Motherhood
The monsoon paints silver streaks across the Naga hills, the smell of wet earth clinging to the air like a forgotten perfume. In 2018-2019, it was the scent of lemongrass and jasmine from bustling Thai street markets that painted my dreams. Now, it’s the milky haze of motherhood, the symphony of burps and gurgles replacing the cacophony of tuk-tuks and temple bells. The woman who once wove through the emerald rice paddies of India, Asia and the far East, a kaleidoscope of saris and wanderlust, feels like a faded snapshot tucked away in a forgotten album.
Motherhood, even under the gentle monsoon drizzle, is a monsoon of its own, flooding your identity with a torrent of new roles and responsibilities. But birthing a son under the grey skies of Covid feels like being shipwrecked on an island of solitude. My village, the one woven in my imagination with postponed playdates and chai circles, evaporated into a sterile landscape of Zoom calls and masked doctors. Especially since my little bundle of joy needed surgery the within the first 8 months of life. I was an outsider in my own skin, adrift in a sea of social distancing and cancelled flights.
The city that once cradled my dreams now sprawls under a monsoon veil, its bustling markets replaced by shuttered shops and silent rickshaws. I push my son’s carriage through graveyard walkways and parks where laughter is muffled by cotton masks, where swings hang limp like forgotten ambitions. It’s in these stolen moments of quiet that the questions thunder through my mind. Who am I, beyond the lullaby whispers and sleepless nights, beyond the walls of this tiny room?
Some days, I see myself through my son’s eyes – a goddess of endless cuddles and warm stories, a universe contained within his chubby fist. On others, the reflection in the mirror mocks me with sleep-deprived eyes and perpetually tangled hair. I’m a shadow of the woman who climbed waterfalls and hopped Tuktuks in Thailand, the one who wore crimson lipstick and chased sunsets across India. Where did she go, that whirlwind of fire and wanderlust? Is she buried beneath the mountains of dirty diapers and endless rocking?
But a knot of guilt tightens in my chest whenever I entertain that thought of who I was before. Is it wrong to miss myself, whoever that was, to mourn the loss of a life that no longer exists?
The answer, I’m finding, isn’t in a choice between “mother” and “self,” but in the intricate melody they create together. Motherhood isn’t the death knell of individuality, it’s a metamorphosis. It’s shedding the skin of who we were, yes, but it’s also the revelation of something deeper, something fiercer.
My identity is like a raga, each note echoing a different facet of myself. I’m a mother, my love as vast as the hills, as nurturing as the monsoon rains. I’m a writer, my fingers itching to dance across the keyboard, weaving tales of faraway lands. I’m a daughter, forever tethered to my Cherokee roots, the rhythm of the dhol beating in my veins. I’m an explorer, the wanderlust humming beneath the surface, waiting to take flight. These notes don’t clash; they harmonize, creating a symphony of who I am.
The paradox lies in the wholeness and the becoming. I am already whole, perfectly imperfect in my messy bun and mismatched holy socks. But I am also forever expanding, like the monsoon clouds reaching for the sky. The yearning to grow, to learn, to become more isn’t a betrayal of who I am, it’s an expression of it.
So, I push open the window, letting the monsoon breeze ruffle the curtains. I take my son on walks, not to the sterile confines of hospitals, but to the hidden alleys where chai vendors laugh and children chase kites. I reconnect with friends, their voices a warm ember against the monsoon chill. I carve out stolen moments for music and writing, my fingers rediscovering the rhythm of storytelling and my voice in its new range after child birth .
It’s a slow dance, this “finding myself again.” But I never had anyway. It was always creating, defining and deciding moment to moment. There are days when the exhaustion threatens to pull me under, and I cry over spilled milk and missed naps. But there are also moments, like when my son’s giggle erupts like rainbows and sunshine through the monsoon clouds, when I catch a glimpse of the woman I’m becoming, a woman who cradles motherhood while chasing her own dreams, a woman who is both perfectly whole and eternally expanding.
I am the nomad navigating a new landscape, the mother with ink-stained fingers, the dreamer who hums melodies of faraway lands under the moonlit but monsoon sky. I am in the magical messy middle, Mmm, the beautiful paradox of being and becoming, and in that space, I am finally discovering,
I am enough.
This phrase, whispered amidst the symphony of motherhood and self-discovery, becomes my mantra. I am enough, even with the monsoon clinging to my hair and the stains of a thousand meals on my shirt. I am enough, even when the echo of past adventures mingles with the cries of a colicky baby. I am enough, not because I have conquered mountains or crossed continents, or flew planes, but because I hold this tiny universe in my arms, and in his eyes, I see the reflections of all I am and all I can become.
The tapestry of my life, once woven with threads of faraway lands, is now embroidered with the delicate stitches of motherhood. This new pattern, while unexpected, holds its own beauty. It tells the story of a woman who learned to sing in the monsoon rain of motherhood, who found strength in the quiet moments stolen between lullabies and laughter. It’s a story still being written, a symphony still composed, a journey that leads not to an ending, but to an eternal becoming.
And in that becoming, in the messy middle where motherhood and selfhood dance a graceful waltz, I find my wholeness. I am the woman with mud on her boots and lighting a fire in her soul, the mother who tells stories of dragons and dreams, the explorer who navigates not just continents, but the uncharted territories of her own heart in all it’s chambers. I am a paradox, a symphony, a magical monsoon melody, Mmm, whispering the promise of who I am and who I am yet to be.
And in that whisper, Am finally home in myself?