Undoing the quiet tyranny of the Perfect Mother Myth. Before becoming a mother, I was the perfect mom. My child would never throw a tantrum — but if they did, I would simply meet them with pure love. My kids would have neatly packed lunches filled with organic fruit, carefully crafted meals, and sensible desserts. They would wear clean, cute clothes with matching socks. They wouldn’t fight. And above all — never use screens. Those were the good old days, when — with no shame and without realizing it — I silently surveilled other mothers through a lens shaped by patriarchal expectations I had absorbed since girlhood. Together, these expectations form what I used to call the Supermom, and I now call the Perfect Mother Myth. The rules vary slightly across cultures, but in the U.S., they sound something like this: The perfect mother is endlessly patient, even on very little sleep. She never yells. She loves every minute. She always puts herself last. She cooks, cleans, nurtures, works, and manages it all — without help. You know, know the Instagram version. Then I went through a 40-hour labor. I sweat and swayed, moaned and cursed, and prayed for it to end. During those hours, I met my demons — and, as mothers do, I slayed them. My midwife mind dissolved, and an ancient mammalian knowing came in. I had crossed a threshold. I was a mother! And immediately found myself on the other side of the surveillance lens. Truly, it begins in pregnancy — everyone offering advice: the cashier, the bank teller, relatives, strangers, the barber — what to eat, how to move, where to birth, how to birth, whether to breastfeed. I’ve been telling the mamas I serve for years that someone needs to write a book about all the stupid shit people say to you when you’re pregnant. You know, like a coffee table book? So far, nothing. Takers? For me, the surveillance intensified once my daughter was outside of my body. And if I’m honest, the loudest scrutiny was my own. The early postpartum was a roller coaster: joy, tears, irritation, love, bliss, rage — sometimes all within minutes.

The sound of snow falling is a soft, delicate roar. It’s so peaceful I wish I could leave the windows and doors open, but the frigid air insists otherwise. My favorite thing about storms — hurricanes during our Miami years or ice and snow storms here in Tennessee — is the way they clear the calendar. Obligations fall away. Space opens up. My shoulders soften. My breath deepens. And... Even though it isn’t entirely true, I feel momentarily off-call. But beneath the quiet, there is a hum of dysregulation. My inner world, the collective world, and everything in between have been spinning at dizzying speeds. Despite my regular practices of pausing, breathing, moving, and checking in, there remains a persistent bracing — a sense that the shit is about to hit the fan (and already has for many). I feel it in my clenched jaw. My held breath. The ice storm — and the ICE storm — have both activated our collective nervous system. One wrong move, one misstep, one misunderstanding can alter the trajectory of a life. I find myself cycling through rage, grief, solidarity, hope, disgust, and moments of radical joy — sometimes all in the same hour. The emotional whiplash is disorienting and exhausting. As this rare swath of snowy time opens up, all I want is warm tea and sleep. And yet, sleep feels elusive when… A prominent midwife and Black maternal health advocate dies while giving birth in a hospital. Even a woman who dedicated her life to protecting Black mothers from becoming a disparity statistic couldn’t escape the fatality odds of birthing while Black. An unarmed mother of three is shot and killed by an ICE officer who faces no accountability, despite ample video evidence. Police show up at a woman’s home to interrogate her over a social media post criticizing a mayor. An innocent ICU nurse is murdered with no accountability. An ICE detainee in El Paso is restrained and asphyxiated by law enforcement. Federal agents call it a suicide. And that’s just a fraction of what’s happening.

I'm Corina, and I'm so glad you found your way here! I am a midwife, mother, and founder of MotherFly and the MotherTongue podcast. My passion is maternal wellness and empowerment, and my mission is the transform the motherhood landscape from burnout to thriving. I am trying out Skoole as a new platform to engage with mothers needing community, support, information, and inspiration. I would love to learn more about you. What brings you to this space, and when is the last time you felt really ALIVE? How long ago was it, and what were you doing?