The girl who loved to dream and sing. Oh, how I loved to sing. I cry as I write. I felt so connected, standing on stage, microphone in hand, the music swirling around me, embracing me, caressing me, as I reached up and touched the heavens. And how I loved to daven, heartfelt emotion and tears coursing through me as my body heaved and I tasted closeness, eternity.

I was thin and beautiful. Comfortable in my body as it helped me shower others with the beauty I felt. I was so compassionate. So deeply understanding of others. So sensitive. So in tune with every nuance and rhythm of others’ inner worlds. I loved connecting with friends. We could sit over coffee for hours! Laughing until tears were streaming down our faces.

And nature. The world spoke to me. The wide open skies and fields and water and foliage. It expanded my mind, my consciousness. I was awed. Overwhelmed and calmed by its sheer magnificence.

Acting, speaking, writing, thinking. I loved to learn. To drink in the stimulation that a master teacher weaved and threaded and stitched together. I was deeply enriched.

And now.

Somewhere along this blessed journey, I lost myself.

I sing, sure. But somehow it’s not the same. When I daven, I may feel my heart thaw a little, but at times, it remains frozen, impenetrable. Nature? The sky above my few blocks. I don’t recognize my body: The time and resources I need to feel my very best are luxuries I indulge in from time to time, but are not my everyday reality. The compassion and connection? I don’t recognize myself as I interact with those nearest and dearest to me. Who is this impatient, intolerant woman?

But I now know who she is. She is a person trying to survive, while letting go of everything she is. It’s true that this is my path to eternity, the real test of my character and the barometer of my ability to give, but…

If I lose myself along the way, who will be there to touch it?

Mrs. A. Arielli

Mrs. Arielli has a Masters in Jewish Education and has been a popular seminary lecturer for over a decade, inspiring girls and guiding them through the transition to marriage and motherhood.

Everyone has felt so much of this at some point. And as a young mother, there’s another ingredient in addition to feeling tired and overwhelmed: dealing with the transition from singlehood to being an enabler and facilitator, a wife and mother.

Step back to the time when you were a student, and you had a lengthy and complex paper to hand in. You’re up all night. A few nights in a row. You barely eat, barely sleep. Panic worms inside, you try to tamper it down.

Being a mother isn’t so different, but it’s harder because you’re not just striving for scholastic excellence — there are little (and big) people involved. When you’re writing that paper, you’re aware that when you hand it in, it’ll be over. The overwhelming stage of motherhood lasts far longer than it takes to write a term paper, but it’s still a stage. It passes. The question is, how to survive until it eases.

First, throw away any old, lingering measuring sticks. Shemoneh Esreh may have taken you 20 minutes, now it takes three. That’s normal. It’s fine. And while you may miss having time to daven, remember that mothering also makes it easier to connect. After all, there’s so much you need, whether a solution to the baby’s reflux, five minutes to talk to your husband, or a trip to the store without it turning into a fiasco. So tefillah — and all of life — has a different barometer. Remembering that can help stave off feelings of inadequacy or failure.

When it comes to help, it’s great that you have a cleaning lady, but maybe you don’t mind the mess and would do better if you had a babysitter a few times a week, so you can have a little more space and quiet. Think about your specific needs and tailor your help accordingly.

You’re doing your best to care for yourself. You try to rest and walk and eat properly. That’s wonderful. I’d suggest a little fine-tuning. Ask yourself: What do I love to do that expresses my personality? When do I feel like me? One woman I know has a weekly basketball game with friends. Another joined a choir. It might be a shiur or a nature hike or a dance class. Find what makes you feel alive, and do it once a week. Build it into your schedule so you don’t miss it. Connect to yourself in a way that enables you to bring that part of yourself into your home and relationships.

I wish you every hatzlachah.

After the baby is up all night I validate the fact that I have a good reason for feeling cranky, and try to find time for a nap.

The mantra that gets me through the hard days: I add one word to the “to do” list, I “get to do” these wonderful but hard things.

When I find myself ready to scream I turn on music or have a coffee or whatever else calms me, and ask Hashem to help me be more patient.

If I had two days all to myself I’d hike somewhere with a beautiful view and have some time to think, then get together with a close friend to talk, take a really long nap, go to an inspiring shiur, and end up at the Kosel.

My mothering role model is: someone who works on her patience, tries to really understand each child for who he/she is, and injects her talents and personality into her home.

Yael Meyer

Born and bred in New York, Yael Nachama Meyer now lives in Neve Daniel, where she raises three delightful daughters.

Does everyone think that everyone else has mothering down to a science? Whenever I struggle, I think: It’s because I’m new at this. It’s because I don’t have the right experience or because there’s such a big break between my children. But then I realize that no, it’s because it’s all encompassing, it’s intense, it’s hard. Mothering is difficult.

And therein lies the paradox because, of course, mothering is the greatest blessing. So shouldn’t a blessing be good — all the time?

Our first child was born after an eight-year wait. She was six years old when our twins burst onto the scene. Of course, these longed-for children are a dream fulfilled, but it’s hard to make peace with the fact that a blessing isn’t always easy. And then along comes the guilt: Why isn’t it good for me right now? Why aren’t I filled with love and appreciation all the time?

Other people contribute to the guilt. “It’s a good problem,” they say. Which is true. But when one twin is running up the street, and the other has just disappeared down the street, and you’re frozen in place as you try to decide in which direction to make your pursuit, you just need to get through the moment. You don’t need a reminder to count your blessings, you don’t even want sympathy… you just need there to be two of you!

One of the hardest aspects of having twins is the sibling — and sibling rivalry — dynamic. My daughter was an only child for six years. She had never fought over a toy, over a hug, over an ounce of attention. And suddenly, I had to divide myself up every moment. I find my decisions are often based not on who needs me, but who needs me the most and needs me right now. So I’m reading a book on the couch to one daughter, and her twin starts yelling from the other room. I have to interrupt that special mothering moment to deal with another child’s demands. That’s hard, because as a mother, what do we want more than to give all of our children all of ourselves?

Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I burst into tears right in front of them. Sometimes I wonder how in the world I’ll get through the day. But then I remind myself that I got through yesterday and I got through the day before. Somehow, by some miracle, I got through last week and even last month. Still, I wonder how deeply I can dig into my reserves of energy and whether anything can possibly be left of my real self to extricate. Dedicating my time to small children leaves me starving for adult interaction. Babies are adorable, but great conversationalists they’re not!

One of the nicest things anyone ever did for me was when my husband and older daughter were in Australia, visiting family. I’d arranged to eat supper and bathe the twins at a friend’s house, for the help and company. But one of my daughters was sick and my friend didn’t want her kids to catch it. I was at home, alone, feeling down, when there was a knock at the door. My friend had come over to help me and keep me company. That was huge.

Every Shabbos, my husband comes home from davening and pushes me out the door to a shiur. I’m always like, forget it, I don’t need it. But he insists. And it does me so much good — the walk, the shiur, the company. When I don’t have that, by the end of Shabbos I’m not a happy camper.

There’s always a tendency to prioritize the house over your own wants and needs. But the laundry will always be there, so why not go for a swim or do something for yourself?

There are many hard things in life, and mothering is a huge challenge. But this challenge comes with built-in chances for happiness. Every day you get to become a mother again — assuming you got to sleep in the first place. And you get to love so much.

Indeed, that opportunity to love motivated my yearning to become a mother again. Mothering my first child was so fulfilling — and so much fun! — that I naturally wanted to enjoy the same positive experience again. Beyond that, I felt that although I’d filled my daughter’s life with love, I still had so much love to give… and no more children to give it to. I grieved the loss of love not shared.

Then, the arrival of my twins demanded every ounce of my emotional and physical energy. But the more draining it is, the more gratifying; the harder it is, the more rewarding. On the last day of vacation, the girls wanted to go the zoo. I was nervous to take them alone, but I wanted them to have their ideal day. So I did it. And was I ever proud of myself!

Mothering means maximizing your potential to give. It means those you love most need all the love you have to give. And therein lies true joy.

After the babies are up all night I dream of having a nap.

The mantra that gets me through the hard days: I’m mothering the best I can.

When I find myself ready to scream I ask my incredible oldest daughter to watch the twins while I go to another room alone for five minutes.

If I had two days all to myself I’d go swim with the dolphins in Eilat.

My mothering role model: my mother, my sisters, my neighbors.

Rebbetzin Via Kimche

Originally from Amsterdam, Rebbetzin Via Kimche is a childbirth educator and a kallah teacher, and has been teaching and counseling for 30 years. In addition to lecturing across London in high schools, shuls, and her own home, Rebbetzin Kimche is a sought-after international speaker on women in Judaism.

I read your piece and was filled with empathy. For you, and for all the Jewish women you represent, who are spiritually sensitive, want to do the right thing and raise a beautiful family, but feel themselves getting lost in the process.

I actually have a term for this feeling — I call it baby-shock.

All of us dream about having wonderful children. For nine long months, we take care of ourselves and daven and dream. And then, after a hard labor, the dreamed-about child turns out to be a… baby! A baby, with all its myriad, minute-to-minute needs and very physical demands. And it takes a long time till we see the dividends of our investments.

A good analogy would be the avodah of the Kohanim in the Beis Hamikdash. For years, the Kohanim learned the halachos and kavanos of the avodah in depth. They refined their characters and worked their way up to the privilege of the task. And come their moment of glory, and what are they doing? Slaughtering animals. It doesn’t look like spiritual work, but this is the zenith of the Kohein’s avodas Hashem.

In a world which emphasizes intellectual achievements and freedom of choice, baby-shock can be intense, and the switch to hands-on practicalities can be especially difficult.

It’s not easy to come to terms with and understand that our daily physical and emotional investment is exactly what’s needed for our children to become wonderful human beings and ohavei Hashem. It’s not easy to internalize the fact that indeed this is our avodah — and not another attractive lofty spiritual undertaking.

We say in Eishes Chayil, “vatischak leyom acharon.” The laughter and satisfaction from this labor of love comes on the “last day,” years, decades, after the intense work.

I wish you all the best.

Ilana Shafer

Ilana is the writer of the popular FF diary serial “Out of the Whirlwind,” in which she described her challenges with her children.

Hollywood is treif, of course, but I think that, unwittingly, we may have bought into our very own, kosherized version of Tinseltown. It’s these images that pervade our literature, our stories, the narratives we swallow and absorb and then repeat, never stopping to question.

It goes like this: Father sits with a sefer, perhaps holding the baby, while the lilting hum of his learning soothes the infant and brings an aura of calm and holiness to the home. Meanwhile, Mommy is in the kitchen, baking — preferably challahs, or at least chocolate chip cookies — with a gaggle of little ones.

Or perhaps it’s this: white tablecloth, gleaming candlesticks, father at the head of a table surrounded by scrubbed and smiling faces, the silver goblet lifted aloft…

Sure, there might be a tiny squabble about who sits next to Tatty. But that’s just the detail that proves the authenticity of the experience.

Friday night does not involve a wrung-out father, a mother tortured by feelings of failure and guilt, and bickering that would register on the Richter scale. It does not involve a wilting marriage where both partners have had so many sleepless nights and draining afternoons that they don’t have the energy to water their own relationship.

We used to make fun of the stereotype: non-Jewish families with their 2.4 children. Plus dog, of course. But in blithely minimizing those women with small families, I think we were also buying into something else: that supreme, unshakeable confidence that we are far more capable of raising a family. In doing so, I believe we downplayed the awesome and frightening responsibility of bringing children into the world and raising them. Each child is a world. A whole world, who needs a mother to learn his territory and guide him and care for him.

From the time we’re young we inhale the ideas that motherhood is a privilege (true) and that a good Jewish woman loves all stages of motherhood (not always true). But this makes me feel like I have to deny the enjoyment I get from other parts of my life — work, friends, extended family — because that would mean that my kids are not my life.

My mother always worked, and she worked hard. She mostly finished her job by the time we came home from school, but on occasion we were welcomed by the housekeeper. On those days, there was a pit in my stomach as I arrived home with the knowledge that she wouldn’t be there. It sometimes bothered me that I was the kid whose mother never went on school trips or was part of the PTA. If I forgot my lunch at home, I didn’t have lunch.

But with the power of hindsight, and seeing where we all are today, things look different. My mother has worked her way up to a position which uses her strength and talents, in which she helps many people and uses her creativity and talent. We’re all incredibly proud of her achievements, her independence and vitality.

So should I feel guilty that when I sit down at the computer I breathe a sigh of relief, and feel a bubble of energy and enjoyment that I never feel with my children? I don’t know. I’d like to think not. Though it seems many other people seem to think I should.

On a practical level, I’ve learned certain formulae for survival. More than 2.30 hours alone with the children and I will yell. It’s almost mathematical, cause and effect. So I know to build in breaks: 20 minutes alone time while my husband or a babysitter takes over is like a power break.

But there are days and there are days. Today, for example, my daughter refused to take her meds and I didn’t have the strength to argue with her. It took ten seconds from her arrival home for the place to turn upside down. And then, how long until I do something that makes me feel ashamed of myself? And then I feel like, what’s wrong with you? What have you become?

Motherhood forces you to get to know yourself all over again. Who am I now? What do I want? What’s my relationship with Hashem if I only get to daven for two minutes a day? You have to rediscover it all.

In the midst of that, one of my mother’s mantras returns to me. “Deracheha darchei noam,” she’d repeat. “Its ways are ways of pleasantness.” Torah’s paths are pleasant, and you have to find how to integrate that into your life as a mother, too. I’ve learned along the way to listen to my inner voice. If you listen, you’ll learn what makes you happy and excited and sad and then you can try and integrate these discoveries into your life.

Ditch the script. Ditch the self-recriminations and the guilt. And find your own joy in raising your family.

After the baby is up all night I am cranky and depleted and irritable. On days when I’m smart, I push myself to get extra help in the afternoon or ask my husband (very specifically and clearly) to kick in. Sometimes I do a little-engine-that-could dance: 3 hours till bedtime. I think I can, I think I can….

The mantra that gets me through the hard days: One day my kids will be older and I will so enjoy their company.

When I find myself ready to scream I tell my kids, (on good days) “I feel myself getting very angry right now. I need to leave the room.” (On bad days) “Why can’t you just stop fighting for once in your life?? I am SICK AND TIRED OF THIS!!!”

If I had two days all to myself I’d get a pile of books I’ve wanted to read for a while. Self-help, biographies, maybe a novel or two. I’d book a room at a hotel with a pool and alternate between swimming and reading. I’d daven a full, blessedly quiet Shacharis and Minchah, maybe even Maariv, and feel connected to Something Bigger. For each meal, I’d invite over a friend who I haven’t talked to — really talked to — for months. We’d sit and schmooze and laugh and cry over ice coffee and ice cream. Then I’d bentsh, saying each word, without having to motion with my hands or prevent a crisis or put a child on my lap or say “Nu!” not even once.

My mothering role model: my mother. When I was younger, I didn’t see her as the storybook mother; I saw her as a rock in my life who was very smart but didn’t always do things the way I wanted. With every birthday and with every parenting challenge, I feel in awe all over again at what she managed to accomplish. I remember one incident when one of us did something terribly irresponsible, with serious ramifications, and she lost it. What’s so remarkable to me today is the fact that the incident stands out vividly in my mind — because it was so unusual. Today, my mother is the cheerleader who pulls me up when I get hit with the I’m-a-terrible-mother-and-there’s-nothing-to-do-about-it syndrome. She’s the one who says, “Ilana, let go of your perfectionism. Look how much you invest, how many classes you take, how many victories you’ve had. You’re a great mother. Stand up, brush off the dust, and keep going.”

Mrs. Aviva Barnett

Mrs. Aviva Keren Barnett (MA, PgD) Existential Psychotherapist and Counselor accredited with the UKCP, United Kingdom Council for Psychotherapy, runs a private practice where she works with individuals and facilitates support groups. Aviva can be contacted through Mishpacha.

I’m so moved by your story. It takes tremendous courage to look within and see and acknowledge areas of your life that are not how you’d want them to be.

The first thing I want you to know is that you’re not alone. Being isolated, overwhelmed, and pressurized are, unfortunately, common feelings along the mothering journey. Although just because these feelings are common it doesn’t make it easier right now.

I’d like to draw attention to your criticisms toward yourself, which might come from self-imposed expectations. You call yourself an impatient and intolerant mother: Where is the softness and kindness toward yourself? Where is the voice acknowledging your strength and amazing achievements as a person and a mother? We don’t have to define ourselves by the moments we’re not proud of. We want to live with the goal of being the best mom, but that also puts additional pressure on us. Cut yourself a little slack.

You mention that you’re afraid that if you let go, things will fall apart. I wonder if you’d be willing to explore this in greater depth. Unpack this a little, with the help of a therapist. By identifying and exploring the root of that fear it may be more possible to make sense of it — and self-compassion can be the result.

The present is the only place we have that’s in our control. Thinking about and looking into the future can lead to anxiety. Thinking about the past tends to have us bringing up our failings, and that will lead to a low mood. Staying in the here and now can help you move into a healthier and happier space.

I’m delighted to read that you’re looking after your basic needs: eating healthily, napping, walking. But there’s a huge difference between needs and wants. Sometimes we need to do what we want as well as what we need.

We like to compare mothering to a juggling act. With all the balls flying through the air, remember, there’s one ball it’s crucial that we not drop: ourselves. You’ve taken the first step — put pen to paper and articulated your feelings. Now let’s look at where your control does lie, and where you can change. I believe your control lies in your response to your situation. It may be helpful to take time away from the kids and the busyness, perhaps with a therapist, and make a plan to help find yourself.

Self-care is a lifetime of work. Many of us women need to touch base constantly and ask ourselves: Where are we now in relation to our self-care? Life pressures can wear us down, but when we look at what we want to do, whether spend time on davening or singing or socializing, and make time for that, we may feel less burdened by our obligations.

Above all, I’d say, don’t compare yourself with others. Look inside, recognize your strengths. One of these is courage — which should be celebrated.

Self-acceptance is a journey, and you’ve started that journey.

Mrs. E. Rabson

Mrs. Esther Rabson is a teacher, mother, and grandmother. She lives in London.

With 11 children and many grandchildren, baruch Hashem, there are a thousand ways in which money can be used and abused. Which is why we never traveled. And I suppose that’s why my husband kept it a surprise from me when he whisked me away to Switzerland for our 40th wedding anniversary.

I’ve spent many years schlepping groceries and pushing a vacuum cleaner, and in the last couple of years, I even joined a gentle stretching class for nearing-old ladies like me. But I wasn’t prepared for mountain hikes. Still, you can’t exactly be taken on a trip to Switzerland and refuse to climb even a gentle mountain.

So I did. The first hour was fine, even enjoyable. But I started to get weary, and the path grew steeper and yes, while everything was a blaze of green pasture and blue sky, I was nearing the end of my strength. “Stop and rest a while,” my husband suggested. I found a rock and sat down, facing not the mountain in front, but the drop behind us.

It was so beautiful it took my breath away. “I climbed all this?”

My husband nodded.

“Wow. I didn’t realize.”

We sat quiet, companionably, and then a thought rose inside me: I wished I could bring every single one of my daughters and daughters-in-law here. Not for the break — though heaven knows, they could use it — but to show them how sometimes you need to stop and look back and see how far you’ve climbed.

I think childrearing was easier in my day. There weren’t so many worries, for a start. You didn’t beat yourself up about the stakes: Today, if he doesn’t do well at school, he’ll be broken, get into the wrong crowd — and down a steep, slippery slope. This make the pressure so intense: one failed test and already the worry emerges — does he need a tutor? Is there a learning disability? Should we test him for ADHD?

The world was safer then. It was slower. My children were spaced further apart than my grandchildren. And I never worked more than a few hours a week until the children were all in school. My daughters and daughters-in-law somehow manage to work, mother, everything.

They go through hard times, and then my husband and I react differently: He gets frustrated at his sons-in-law (not that he shows it) for setting up a home, a lifestyle, in which his cherished daughters must work so hard. I tend to see the bigger picture — it was my daughters’ choice, too. But I have to stop myself from jumping in to save them. Yes, there are times when that’s needed: after a new baby or when flu hits or at a very stressful time at work. But most times, what’s needed is just a small gesture — a fresh fruit salad, being taken out for coffee — and a huge dose of encouragement.

My daughters don’t have that mountainside perspective. They don’t stop to think that little Sruly used to use a pacifier so much that he barely spoke, and now he’s been weaned off it. Because they’re there in the trenches, they don’t stop to appreciate how much Mindy’s reading has improved, and that Shani now goes to a friend a couple of times a week, and I don’t know if they even notice all the times Avrumy now holds in his temper.

More than that, I don’t think they stop to realize what they’ve become. It’s my privilege as a Bubby to watch my grandchildren grow, but it’s a deeper nachas to see my daughters and daughters-in-law develop from young kallahs — beautiful, self-absorbed, with relatively little self-knowledge (this isn’t a criticism, it’s normal for the age and stage) — into expanded human beings.

They’ve come face to face with their failings, and in doing so have become more self-aware and tolerant of others. They have seen the limits of their strength — and have had to reach out to their husbands and to the Ribbono shel Olam and ask for help. They have had to advocate for their children — and in doing so, have learned assertiveness. They have cried and mellowed and gotten angry and worried and loved — above all, they have loved.

From the side of the mountain, I see the people they have become, through the struggles and the hard times.

They have grown into themselves.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 562)