ready for my nightbitch moment
how a "horror/comedy" movie led me to reach for creating artistic goals
Note: I am referring mostly to Nightbitch the movie, though I do pull quotes from the novel by Rachel Yoder.
“She had once been a girl, then a woman, a bride, expectant, a mother, and now she would be this, whatever this was.”
Nightbitch. What the fuck is that? I remember thinking that after seeing a random Facebook post advertising that the movie was now on Disney+. I scanned through the comments, a lot of laughter emojis and comments that Disney was no longer “kid friendly”. How strange, I thought, and then thought nothing more of it until a post on r/Mommit caught my eye and I had to watch it.
After reading the synopsis I felt even more compelled to watch such a mysterious movie (how do dogs connect to the main character?): “An artist who pauses her career to be a stay-at-home mom”… That was all I needed.
During a bout of food poisoning misery, I began watching the movie on my cracked iPad while either trying to fall asleep while my newborn daughter slept in her bassinet or while nursing her. In between unrestful naps, nursing, changing diapers, tending to my toddler, rushed trips to the bathroom, groaning in agony from gastrointestinal cramping, and hating my life, I managed to watch the movie and it stuck with me, to the point where I decided to read the novel after.
While the movie and novel differed plot-wise, both were composed of key quotes and moments I connected with. Several parts validated my feelings as a stay-at-home mom and artist who suddenly felt lost with her sudden status as a mother. Not that my career revolved around art itself– no, I had merely been a commercial embroidery machine operator at a small business- nothing special at all. However, the birth of my sunshine baby sparked an immense amount of creativity. I suspended myself as best as I could in the local Artist Association art scene and group gallery exhibitions in a town over an hour away.
There were so many ideas that revolved around in my head but I struggled to bring my thoughts into fruition, struggled to string together the strands of embroidery floss soaked into fabric or acrylic paints dabbed onto canvas into tangibility. And with the sudden change of my husband’s career that sent us suddenly from the Midwest to down South, I found myself lost trying to navigate this new and unfamiliar place. There was no Artist Association to join freely, and instead, I found myself trying to find fellow mothers to hang out and connect with.
But it was hard, and now I still find myself struggling with the title of being an "artist". I first gave up my art studio for it to become my son's room, last year I canceled my Adobe Creative Cloud membership because of the price, I also gave up my goal of entering a UK embroidery competition, and I haven’t completed a personal embroidery piece since the move in 2023.
“How many generations of women had delayed their greatness only to have time extinguish it completely? How many women had run out of time while the men didn’t know what to do with theirs? And what a mean trick to call such things holy or selfless. How evil to praise women for giving up each and every dream.”
My mother was an artist. That talent slipped between her fingers upon having my brother and eight years later when she gave birth to me. I liked to think that she passed her artistic ability and creativity down to me and I promised myself I would utilize the gift given to me to make her proud.
That didn’t happen.
Then I had a child and almost three years later I had another one.
I found myself looking at artist call opportunities pondering about entering, weighing the possibility of creating and finishing a piece to submit in time, knowing that was a stretch. That to have a goal like that itself was absurd, and quite frankly, impossible.
“—but there is not room for the child within the sun-washed studio. Or, rather, there is not room for art within my house with my child. It is as if all my dreams have been reset. The walls are blank, and with them I am blank, too.”
I connected with Nightbitch and her struggle to get her son to sleep at night. Her monologue of fucking it all up by “spoiling” her child to sleep, resonated with my own guilty feelings. I had messed up any possibility of getting free time by getting pregnant and giving up on putting my son to sleep in his bed alone to combat my nausea. Now he was dependent on sleeping in bed with me, and during nap times I was sleeping through them with him.
There was no time.
The monologues of the movie- the raw honesty and awkwardness of the situations at hand, of what one wants to say, but they fail to do so drew me in. Also, the monotony introduced to us with the blending of banal days as a homemaker and going to story time (or “Book Babies”) and seeing the hesitance and yearning in the eyes of other mothers. The foreignness of our “new” postpartum bodies. The sudden transition of our feelings differing towards our pet that had come first before our child. The disconnect from the art world while our friends or past peers are still suspended in that world. The animalistic nature of giving birth, the transition of being a mother and doing anything to protect the life created, but also the barrage of hormones and everything becoming different after giving birth. That transition of trying to figure everything out, while also losing yourself and struggling to find who you now are.
I’ve had goals I’ve given up and I’ve compared myself to social media moms who still manage to create art after having a child.
I’ve felt like a failure.
I just haven’t tried hard enough. Never had, maybe never will. It’s not like I tried hard enough before having a child. But that passion awakened with the birth of my son whose life threw me into an existential crisis.
“You’ll get time one day when they’re older,” a judge told me at a gallery opening for the local artists association. We stood in front of an abstract embroidery piece (La vie en rose) I had completed throughout my first pregnancy.
But I didn't want to wait and still don't, because something yearns inside of me now.
“It’s almost as if having a child allows a woman to see how much infinite potential there is, allows her to see infinity itself. (Am I making any sense?) It’s almost as if having a child does not sate a deep yearning but instead compounds it.”
I’ve given up on half-embroidered hoops, and unpinned half-draped garments on my dress form, the sketches inside my sketchbook suddenly seemed impossible for me to complete- that my skills were too novice and clumsy along with my struggle to render 2D into 3D.
Nightbitch opened something up inside of me. In the movie, the mother creates her own solo show composed of large paintings of fellow mothers, taxidermied animals, and strung-up golden animal skeletons. I was more compelled by this, not so much by the performance art described in the book, from which the movie greatly differed. Nightbitch in the novel also managed time to make art when her husband was home, rather than separate from her husband as portrayed in the movie.
But I want that moment. I crave it.
The goal is not so much to have a solo show, for God knows that’s another unobtainable goal for a year, but to finally submit an art piece to a local show. To take another step to get myself out there, to maybe prove to myself that I am not like my own mother, and I still “got it”.
This summer I took pictures of the clouds from my backyard, the colors and blobs reminded me of how easy it seemed to paint them with Bob Ross techniques. Deep dark blues to pastel pinky purplish puffs, to the illumination of cloud edges with the setting sun’s golden light. I yearned to paint them, yearned for the joy of painting– despite my impartial feelings toward the medium, instead, many of my tubes of Golden acrylics from design school were mixed into muddy impressive abstract messes against project paper and cardboard by my son (did he get some of my art “talent”?). When I find myself picking up a paintbrush, I just can’t fathom creating something realistic. After all, the last painted piece, a “plein air” piece had looked so elementary on the tiny canvas compared to the other paintings that had been submitted into the event. And I had been one of the only ones to not receive an award. It had been quite embarrassing despite my son’s excitement in my arms and I had cried while trying to strap him in his car seat to leave right after the placed winners were announced.
But this time will be different.
I have the clouds, a picture I took back in August, and I have my rainbow baby, a picture taken on Christmas Day in my brother’s arms where her pale hand exudes “accidental Renaissance” that I want to combine along with a fairly recent picture of pale pinkish-white flowers for an overlay.
It is a personal project I have developed that I feel like will depict my connection to my daughter and the guilt I felt throughout my pregnancy dealing with antenatal depression. It is something I owe to her before I move on to something that deals with my son.
Maybe one day I can obtain the goal of having my own solo show that depicts my struggles of motherhood. Though, I can only take one step at a time.
I have begun the prep with a set of 3 20x20 canvases from JOANN, the thickest one saved for me while the thinner two will be for my son to paint as he pleases on them. I write this while sitting in a resort bedroom in Florida with my sleeping two-month-old in my lap. When I get home back to South Carolina I’m going to make time to complete this and not feel guilty for wanting time to myself. As quoted from the novel:
“I need alone time, she explained that first weekend. Time…to myself.”
Another goal in of itself.
About the Creator
Esmoore Shurpit
I like writing bad stories.
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I Never Chose the Easy Path; I Always Chose Hardship
From the earliest memories I can recall, life presented me with two roads. One was smooth, inviting, and well-trodden—a path that promised comfort, approval, and ease. The other was rough, rocky, and uncertain—a path of struggle, obstacles, and lessons that demanded effort, patience, and resilience. I never chose the smooth road. I never took shortcuts. Not because I was fearless, but because something deep inside refused to let me live a life that wasn’t earned. The easy path whispered promises of fleeting satisfaction, fleeting success, and fleeting recognition. It was tempting. Many around me chose it, and I often wondered if I was foolish for ignoring it. But I learned early that true growth is rarely convenient. The easiest choice often leads to emptiness, to regret, to a quiet knowing that you could have been more than you allowed yourself to be. Hardship became my teacher long before success ever noticed me. The lessons it offered were harsh, uncompromising, and often lonely. There were days when choosing the hard path felt like choosing isolation. While others were celebrated for small accomplishments, supported by friends and family, I walked in silence, with doubt as my companion. Progress was invisible to the world. Failures were frequent and relentless. Many nights, I returned home tired, my heart heavy, my mind questioning why I even bothered. Yet even in that silence, I was being shaped. I was learning the value of persistence, of dedication, and of refusing to give up on myself. The hard path forced honesty. It refused to allow excuses. It stripped away illusions and pretenses. I was left face-to-face with my limits, my fears, and my own humanity. On this path, I discovered strengths I never knew I had: patience I had never cultivated, resilience I had doubted, and self-respect that grew every time I stood up instead of walking away. These were not lessons that could be taught in comfort. They were only learned in struggle, in challenge, and in the quiet persistence of refusing to quit when no one was watching. I remember one time vividly. I had a goal that seemed impossible—one that required me to sacrifice comfort, leisure, and social approval. The easy path was right there: a way to avoid the challenge, to be “okay,” to follow what others had done before me. Many advised me to take it. “It’s safer,” they said. “It’s simpler,” they said. But I could feel, deep inside, that taking the easy way would leave me empty. I chose the hard path. The journey was grueling. Every step felt like pushing against gravity. But with each challenge, I gained more than I ever would have on the easy road. I gained endurance, confidence, and an understanding that real achievement is never handed—it is earned. Strength, I realized, isn’t loud. It doesn’t announce itself. It grows quietly, in the moments no one sees—the early mornings, the long nights, the repeated failures, the times you push forward when giving up would be understandable. Resilience is not simply surviving; it is deliberately choosing to continue, to stand again, to pursue the path that tests you the most. It is knowing that walking away is easier but will never lead to the person you are capable of becoming. I have walked many hard roads in life. Each one was different, yet the lessons were the same: comfort cannot teach endurance, shortcuts cannot teach discipline, and fleeting success cannot teach respect. Every struggle, no matter how small, adds to your character. Every failure is a mirror that shows you who you really are. And every choice to face hardship instead of fleeing builds a foundation that lasts long after temporary victories fade. There were times when I felt truly alone. People around me often misunderstood my choices. Friends, family, colleagues—they all questioned why I refused the easy way, why I worked harder, why I pushed myself beyond what seemed necessary. They didn’t see the growth happening quietly inside me. They didn’t see the small victories, the lessons learned, the resilience being forged. But eventually, the results spoke for themselves—not in a loud announcement, but in the quiet confidence and self-respect that I had built from the inside out. Life, I have learned, rewards those who endure hardship. Not always immediately. Not always visibly. But it rewards those who persist, who face struggle head-on, and who refuse to settle for anything less than becoming their fullest selves. Success that comes without effort is temporary; strength and self-respect are eternal. Hardship tests us, but it also teaches us. It shows us the depth of our own courage, the strength of our will, and the power of refusing to surrender. The lessons of the hard path are subtle, often invisible, and always lasting. I learned that failing is not shameful; failing is a necessary step toward mastery. I learned that enduring pain, even when no one notices, builds a type of strength that comfort never can. I learned that the more difficult the path, the deeper the reward—not measured in wealth or fame, but in character, wisdom, and self-respect. Every choice to embrace struggle instead of avoiding it shaped me. Every sacrifice, every extra hour, every moment of doubt faced instead of ignored, added to the foundation of the person I am today. My life was not easy. It was messy, unpredictable, and often overwhelming. But it was authentic. It was mine. And through hardship, I became resilient. I became someone who can face challenges without fear because I have faced them before. I became someone who respects themselves because I have honored my own effort. I became someone capable of growth because I refused to choose comfort over character. I often reflect on the people around me who chose the easy path. Many of them achieved quick victories, immediate recognition, and temporary peace. But over time, I noticed something important: the victories were shallow, the peace fleeting, and the growth minimal. They lacked the depth of resilience, the quiet power of self-respect, and the profound satisfaction that comes from knowing you endured, you learned, and you became someone stronger. Choosing hardship is not glamorous. It is not celebrated in real-time. It is often lonely, exhausting, and demanding. But it is transformative. It shapes your mind, your heart, and your spirit in ways comfort never can. It teaches discipline, patience, humility, and courage. It makes failure meaningful, effort valuable, and success earned. The hard path is where true people are made—people who understand that life’s challenges are not punishments, but opportunities. Opportunities to become better, stronger, wiser, and more capable. I never chose the easy path. I always chose the harder road, the one that tested me, the one that demanded effort, and the one that required me to face myself honestly. I walked through fear, doubt, exhaustion, and setbacks. I fell, and I got up. I failed, and I tried again. I cried, I questioned, I endured. And through it all, I became someone I could respect, someone who knew the value of persistence, someone who understood that hardship is not the enemy—it is the greatest teacher. Today, I measure success differently. I do not measure it by comfort, convenience, or ease. I measure it by growth, resilience, and the depth of self-respect I have cultivated. I measure it by how I faced challenges I could not ignore, how I embraced struggles that seemed unbearable, and how I refused to take shortcuts at the cost of my own becoming. I never chose the easy path. I chose the one that made me resilient. I chose the one that taught me self-respect. I chose the one that allowed me to become the person I am today. And if I had the choice again, I would choose the hard path every single time. Because the road of struggle is not only a journey—it is the making of a human being.writing...
By Ihtisham Ulhaqa day ago in Motivation
Comments (1)
This is excellent, and I wish you the best of luck!