The Irony of Single Motherhood
The irony of single motherdom is not one for the faint of heart. It is also one of the most freeing spaces I have ever been in—to have the thing you have been craving your whole life be completely and totally yours. Holding her in my arms and being her everything is the greatest privilege. Even the fact that I am the sole human who gets to bear witness to her becoming is something I would never trade.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. It is lonely sometimes. Exhausting. Filled with the voices of judgment from others. Most of the time I can hold it, but in a moment of weakness the sadness and grief come crashing down. It isn’t being a mother that is hard, and it isn’t being single—it is doing them at the same time. Sometimes it feels as though I am standing between two worlds, and I don’t want to be. I feel a resentment bubble up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t supposed to have to balance dating and “my life” with being a mom. I wanted to be at home with her, devoted to a family, not worried about going out, having fun, or dating.
But if I sever off the sexually alive, exuberant part of me, I fear what our life will be like. When I do go out, I feel alive—but always with the unignorable pang of guilt. You’re a mom. What are you doing? You should be with her. You’re selfish. Irresponsible. The judgment comes from every side. If you don’t go out, you’ll lose yourself. If you do, you’re neglecting your child. Planning a date isn’t just “going out”—it’s finding a sitter, rearranging your entire world for a few hours of adult connection, and then fearing you’ll scare him off with the sheer reality of your life.
And the stigma. For single fathers, the story is heroic: What an amazing man to raise a child alone. He is cast as the savior who rescued a child from a neglectful mother. But for single mothers, the questions are always sharp, never soft. It’s never, How could a father abandon his child? It’s, What did she do wrong? She must have chosen badly. She must be reckless, irresponsible, a whore.
And if you actually dare to like someone? To meet a man who stirs something alive in you? The judgment multiplies. His friends do the math, eye your baby, and silently ask: Wasn’t someone else just here, not long ago? Where’s the father? Are you really ready to date our friend? The looks are heavy with implication: Are you worth the trouble? They don’t see the impossible tightrope you’re walking, or that choosing single motherhood was not recklessness—it was survival. It was the braver option.
No one says, Wow, that woman chose the stigma, the stress, and the pressure of being a single mother because being with the father of her child was so unbearable that leaving was the better choice. No one sees that sometimes single motherhood isn’t the wound—it’s the healing.
