The Ghost of Postpartum Past
What our first Christmas as a new family taught me about performance, pressure, and parenting under the gaze of everyone else.
Our first Christmas with my first was seven years ago.
He was a baby. No one could soothe him but me. I kept making excuses—“He’s in a leap”—but something was wrong. I didn’t know what, and I couldn’t fix it. I was trying my best. Trying to hold it all together. But it wasn’t about me—except it felt like it was all about me.
Does that ever stop?
At what point does parenting stop being about me—my performance, my composure, my gentle tone, my yelling, my energy, my sacrifice—and start being about my kid, who he is, what he needs, how he processes the world?
At what point do I stop feeling like I’m on trial?
I think about that Christmas card photo. All three of us dressed in vaguely matching outfits. Perched on our white couch, the one in front of the hideous burgundy wall we inherited from the previous homeowners. The tree glowing in the background. Trying so hard to look festive, happy, presentable. Like I wasn’t six months deep into chronic sleep deprivation. Like I wasn’t wearing jeans that technically fit but betrayed me with every breath. Like I wasn’t hosting both sides of our family—two full sets of relatives from North Carolina—all while clenching my jaw and holding my baby like a human mute button so he wouldn’t cry, or fuss, or do anything that would make anyone uncomfortable.
The whole scene was a performance.
A performance of motherhood, of joy, of “we’ve got this,” of holiday spirit. We were literally taking Christmas photos at Christmas for a holiday card that should’ve been sent out weeks prior, if not months. The metaphor basically wrapped itself.
Because I was trying so hard to prove—to others, to myself—that we were thriving. That we were good parents. That my baby was a good baby. That I was a good mother.
But here’s what the photo didn’t show:
My baby couldn’t eat the cookies we were “supposed” to decorate. He cried through the handprint ornament we were “supposed” to make. He had zero interest in opening presents. (He didn’t like the ones I picked, either.) I was folding and re-folding tissue paper and salvaging gift bags while keeping the pug from eating half-eaten food people kept leaving on every surface. I was trying to conserve holiday waste while simultaneously leaking milk and holding my baby like a security blanket so no one—especially him—fell apart.
It felt like I had to protect the moment from being anything other than magical. And looking back, that’s the pressure I was responding to: the demand that our baby’s first Christmas be picturesque, calm, presentable, grateful, perfect.
But babies aren’t built for Instagram. Or hosting. Or magic on command. And neither am I.
And. And I’ve grown a lot since then.
I wish I could say the performance ends. But seven and a half years in, I still find myself performing. My son recently started a new school. Holy hell. The performances there could be a whole other post…er, it will be a whole other post
What’s changed is me. I’ve morphed into another version of myself—not just as a parent, but as a person. I’m more attuned to when I’m performing. I’m more aware of why. I’ve built enough space, enough muscle, enough grit to notice when I’m sliding into “holiday card mode” and ask myself: Is this really how I want to show up?
Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes no. And both answers are perfect because I’m asking them.
This year? We’re two days into December. We haven’t taken a single step toward creating, let alone sending, a holiday card. Maybe we’ll send one in May. Or maybe not at all. And that feels not just acceptable—it feels authentically right.
If you’re in that place where it all still feels performative, I can’t tell you when it ends. But I can tell you you’re not alone. I’m still in it, too. Just more awake inside of it.
And if you ever want to get curious about the performance you’re caught in—I’m here. I’d love to chat.
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