Loving Again, After Becoming a Mum: What I Know Now.

I wasn’t too sure how I felt about the idea of loving someone again — outside of loving my son.

I didn’t think it would ever be possible.

Not in this way.

Not with a body that feels unfamiliar.

Not with a life that now orbits around a little soul who depends on me for everything. But the thoughts come — quietly at first, then all at once. And just as quickly, they’re dismissed.

Would anyone still want me like this?

Would they see past the extra pounds that remain from pregnancy, the softness of my tummy, the fatigue in my eyes?

Would they understand that this scar — the one across my belly — is more than just a mark? It’s a battle wound earned through sacrifice and strength, a permanent reminder of the day I brought my son earthside.

Would they understand that it’s no longer just about me?

That I’m no longer available for half-hearted love — not when I’m responsible for a whole human now.

Since becoming a mother — especially a single one — I see love through a completely different lens. What I once settled for wouldn’t even make it to the front door now. Because it’s not just about protecting me anymore. It’s about protecting him — his energy, his peace, his understanding of what love should look like.

I’m setting an example, and I need it to stick. I want my son to know how to treat a woman when he becomes a man. That’s a big responsibility to carry — but one I take seriously.

Becoming a mother taught me exactly what love should never feel like. It helped me raise my standards — not only for him, but for myself. I now understand that love should be unconditional and accepting.

Yet there’s a bittersweet ache when I reflect on the lack of self-worth I had before having my son. The absence of boundaries. The constant self-sacrificing. The anxious attachments I formed with people who were never able to meet me where I needed to be met.

Looking back on my past relationships, I see now that there was always one common thread: I kept changing myself for the other person.

How could I expect to be loved authentically when I wasn’t showing up as my authentic self?

I used to think I had to look a certain way, behave a certain way, become a certain version of “worthy.”

But love isn’t polished.

It’s not perfection.

It’s raw, and real, and requires vulnerability. And nothing makes you more vulnerable than motherhood.

The woman I’ve become since having my son is someone I barely recognise — but I accept her, fully. Because this is me now: real and raw.

I also remember the relationships I witnessed growing up — the ones my mum was in.

The abuse.

The toxicity.

The trauma.

That stayed with me. It shaped me.

And whether I realised it or not, it influenced my earliest perceptions of love.

But abuse doesn’t always come in the form of bruises. It can wear the mask of manipulation. It can speak the language of gaslighting. It can dress up as love-bombing and emotional control.

I now see how many of my early relationships mirrored those patterns — including the racial undertones I didn’t always have the words for.

Dating predominantly white men, I was often seen as an exotic extension of their ego. Rarely was there space held for my wholeness — for the mixed-race girl who never quite belonged anywhere. For the girl who had to explain, decode, or dilute herself just to be “accepted.”

Now, I see love through clearer eyes. Self-love is the key. Because I know that love again is possible.

But it will have to be real.

It will have to be slow.

And it will have to be intentional.

I’m not looking for someone to save me anymore. Because I’ve already saved myself.

What I’m looking for now is a love that can grow with me.

“If love comes, it will have to be strong enough to hold both of us, and soft enough to never ask me to shrink again.”

💛 Read. Reflect. Share if it speaks to you.