Monday Morning Motherhood in Late-Stage Capitalism.

Because being a mother in a country without paid family leave in late-stage capitalism feels like you’ve disappeared. Like a lightning bolt amidst a daydream swept you right off this earthly plane.

It’s Monday morning. I’m sitting in the neighborhood coffee shop that I frequent, with the same wooden-framed windows and the same sleek industrial ceiling fan that greets me most Monday mornings.

No one is forcing me to be here. I flock here for the familiarity of faces, the imported organic matcha, and the chance to be alone in my body as a mother of two young kids.

I can hear myself here, even though the music is loud. I can inhabit my body, alone. Even if just for a fleeting hour before I return home to step back knee-deep in mothering.

I find a seat and open my laptop.

The line is long — full of people looking down at their cell phones, largely ignoring each other’s existence. They walk up one-by-one to the barista, order their drug of choice, and walk away, into their lives. Into the grind. Into the “work week”.

And I am no exception. I open my inbox and it’s full, like my cup of iced matcha. Like the moon. And the well of frustration that rises steadily as I read through my messages.

“Five steps to eternal happiness in motherhood!”

“Liberate yourself from mom guilt in three simple steps!”

“Learn macrobiotic cooking before you ruin your baby’s microbiome!”

Selling. Selling. Pushing. Yelling. There’s always someone in my inbox telling me I’m not enough. Not aligned enough, not working enough, not mothering enough, not marketing enough, not cooking enough, and definitely not making enough.

I toy with the idea of pressing “delete all”. I fantasize about an offline revolution where I spend my Monday mornings writing in my journal from the comfort of my bed before I stroll into my garden and pick mint leaves for my morning tea while my kids frolic through tall grasses and feed our chickens alongside the familiar comfort of their loving father. All while I take a moment — even just a minute — to inhabit my body.

The fantasy lingers in my mind’s eye long enough to settle my nervous system. Crisp linens. Warm tea. Frolicking children. Chickens. Ah. Simplicity. Spaciousness.

A baby shrieks not too far from my table and jolts me out of my daydream. A baby, someone’s baby, strapped in a stroller, asking – begging – to be held. The mom looks around in embarrassment before returning to her cappuccino. 

She doesn’t unstrap the baby. I look over compassionately, attempting to exchange a knowing glance.

Because I am her and she is me. Even though my babies aren’t next to me strapped in a stroller. Even though my mothering might look or feel different than hers. Even though our circumstances are different, they’re fundamentally the same.

We’re both mothers, trapped in broken systems. Mothers in America. Mothers — perhaps of privilege — caught in late-stage capitalism.

And maybe she opened her inbox this morning and read the same subject lines. Maybe, before she even had time to greet the sun, someone somewhere was reminding her that she should join their program, buy their guide, or enroll in their masterclass. 

And maybe for a brief moment in time she fantasized too. About hitting “delete”. About a quiet, slow morning in bed with her journal. About making mint tea while her baby sleeps soundly in her eucalyptus-dyed carrier or walks held in her partner’s loving arms amongst the chickens.

But maybe before her fantasy could linger in her mind’s eye long enough to settle her nervous system, her baby cried. And maybe no one was there to tend to her tiny human so she could tend to herself.

So maybe she checked out. Maybe, without even realizing it, she disassociated; disappearing into the “grind”. 

Because being a mother in a country without paid family leave in late-stage capitalism feels like you’ve disappeared. Like a lightning bolt amidst a daydream swept you right off this earthly plane. 

But it’s not just about the missing paid leave. It’s about the collective confusion. The cultural crisis of disconnection and separation, of isolation and individualism. 

The electrifying reality of it all — like a jolt to your system every time you dare to dream. Or every time you open your inbox.

What we really need – instead of more sly marketing copy – are more hands. More humans in our homes and in our hearts. More humans to hold our hands. Mothers. Elders. Matriarchs. To hold us as we hold our children and to look at us from the vantage point of a life already lived and to say with warmth and confidence, “You’ve got this. I’ve got you. It all passes. It’s all temporary”. 

And in the stark absence of mothers being mothered — in the gaping cultural hole of any reverence for motherhood at all — we’re left exposed. Raw. Bare. Our ancient nervous systems short circuit from the metaphorical lightning bolts we’re dodging all day. We’re living in a thunderstorm. 

No wonder we disassociate. No wonder we’re stuck in spiraling cycles of shame and guilt, of fight, flight, and freeze. 

I used to judge moms like her; like the lady with the strapped-in-baby. Instead of looking over with compassion, I’d look over with righteous indignation. 

But then I had two kids. In late-stage patriarchal capitalism. And my friends had kids. And people I loved and admired began to crumble. Like the cookies stacked on top of each other in the pastry case to my right. 

Everyone is crumbling. And the systems are, too. But not quick enough. 

Even the Instagram influencers with the coordinated outfits and carefully curated living rooms are crumbling. Even the ultra-wealthy whose inboxes and children and mansions and vacation homes are managed by swarms of staff. Even they are crumbling.

Maybe not overtly. Maybe not visibility. 

But the cookies are crumbling. Our hearts are breaking. 

Because humans aren’t meant to exist in isolation and separation. We’re a social species. We’re wired for togetherness. And we know in our bones something is amiss.

“No, I’m thriving!” you might say to yourself defensively as you read my words. 

I probably would’ve said that too, last week, before the full moon and the full inbox and the well-full-of-frustration. 

But this week I’m not thriving. I’m surviving. I’m like the overplayed analogy of a duck swimming on a pond, gracefully gliding along the surface but paddling vigorously beneath the surface. Even though last week I was sunning on a nearby rock, eating my third slice of bread from the hands of children visiting my pond.

And that’s just it. That’s what keeps us trapped in cycles of isolation and separation. The oscillation. The okay-enough-ness. 

I read somewhere that humans can and will endure suffering – they will persevere through suffering and maintain the status quo – until the pain of staying in the same sea of suffering finally outweighs swimming through the unknown to the shore of change.

Humans hate discomfort. We hate uncertainty. We are WIRED to seek certainty. Safety. Comfort.

And there is nothing safe about opt-ing out. About hitting “delete”. About throwing it all away to start over. About daring to feel the messy, mucky feelings of mothering in a culture that is grossly negligent to our nature.

We’re indoctrinated from a very young age to stay in line. To conform. To consent to whatever culture throws at us. To please. To perform. To perfect. 

So when the well of frustration rises – when the “remembering” occurs, we shut it down. We order another cappuccino. We pick up our phone in a desperate subconscious attempt to feel something other than the subtle or not-so-subtle discomfort of our lives. 

But we do remember. I know we do. We all do. You do, even if you’re thriving. I do, even on the days I’m the duck on the rock eating my third loaf of bread. 

We remember our nature. That our nature is to nurture. To lay naked on the grass with our babies on our bodies. To eat food we plucked from the earth. To swim in salty seas. To sit around some sort of fire in a trance of togetherness with each other. 

To shift and drift seasonally and cyclically. To be in harmony with the rhythm of nature. 

We’re meant for many hands and many hearts surrounding us. Enough so that no baby is left to cry. Enough so that no baby is kept caged or strapped or stuck in a container against their will. Enough so that no mother has to disconnect and disassociate out of sheer survival. 

We. Are. Wired. For. Nurture. We evolved to caretake each other and our babies. We evolved to tend to each other, not our inboxes. Not our DMs. 

And so if you find yourself reading this in solidarity, know that our shared strife is not an indication of the strength of your spirit. It’s a sign of the weakness of our culture. 

You weren’t made for endless hours on the internet. You weren’t made for hurriedness and carseats. You weren’t made to be tethered to pumps and hassled by tracking apps. 

You weren’t made for hardness, like the concrete and asphalt you roll the tired tires of your buggy over as you gesture knowingly at the mom across the street who wasn’t made for hardness or loneliness either.

Concrete and asphalt aren’t places to rest your weary bones or to contend with purpose and meaning.

The soft earth sits smothered below, crushed by the weight of it all. She is crumbling too – Mama Earth. Just like you. Just like us. 

Surfaces as unforgiving as the systems they were designed to serve. 

When you forget this, bring yourself to the company of a flower. Take in its lines and curves. Remark at its beauty (and then at yours). 

You are made of the very same intelligence. The very same spark. And a flower, too, would be wilting if she were forced to bloom alone under the weight of concrete. 

You were meant to rest naked on the Earth. Alone and with your babies. Held in community.

And once we really recognize this in the deepest recesses of our consciousness, maybe we can hit “delete”. Maybe we will make the move, start the garden, do less, unplug, and reconnect. To ourselves. To our families. To our babies. To our power. 

One mother at a time. A reclamation. A resistance. A return to ancient wisdom. 

A revolt. A release of all that has been pressing so hard upon us. 

A rising against the systems that strip us of our birthright of togetherness. Of ease. Of peace. Of rest.

The revolution will not be televised, they say. And they’re right. It’ll be an inside job. Inside the crumbling, contained – but never-to-be-crushed – souls of the mothers trapped in late-stage capitalism. 

A silent - sleepy, snuggly, soft - revolution as mothers return to their intuition. As mothers return to their babies. And to themselves. 

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For shorter soundbites on motherhood, head to my Instagram where I’ve been weaving ancient wisdom with modern science to walk women back to their power since my daughter was born in 2020.