Twenty-first century mothers are often offered a narrative in which they are martyrs and “hot messes,” lost in their roles as caretakers of tiny souls—but Cultivating Motherhood aims for something deeper and more grace-filled. As a mother, I know the need to cultivate a whole life rooted in Christ only intensifies as my daughter grows. My hope for this column is to share practical ways to still flourish and cultivate wholeness in Christ, while also inspiring our children to grow into sturdy oaks of righteousness.
He will protect His flock like a shepherd,
He will gather the lambs in His arm,
He will carry them in His bosom;
He will gently and carefully lead those nursing their young.
— Isaiah 40:11
I assembled the nursing pump as I’d done countless times before, but where I once felt stubborn determination, I now knew only a deep dread. Three months ago, when my newborn daughter Molly couldn’t breastfeed, I eagerly borrowed this electric pump from my best friend. If Molly could take my milk in a bottle, then by golly, I’d get up every three hours every night and pump, even if it meant I had to watch The Great British Baking Show at 2 a.m. like a zombie. After all, “breast is best,” right?
Every mother I knew breastfed their babies. I couldn’t. Molly’s severe tongue, cheek, and lip ties prevented her from latching properly. She was gaining weight now that she’d had her frenectomy, a quick procedure that freed the tissue in her little mouth and enabled her to at least use a bottle properly—but the weight came slowly. Our pediatrician finally recommended I add some formula to her bottles. Deep down, I was relieved: I was already worried my milk wasn’t as nutritionally dense as it should’ve been, likely because I wasn’t eating enough amid the stress. A little something extra—“lagniappe,” as we call it in Louisiana—wouldn’t hurt.
But before long, my determination faltered. I would be perfectly fine before setting up the pump, but as soon as the suction began, dread and horror would wash over me. I now know that this phenomenon has a name: Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex. In the moment, I only knew that every time I pumped, I felt nauseous, depressed, and afraid.
Yet I kept going, because 1) “Breast is best,” but also, 2) “What will all the other breastfeeding moms in my life think if I give up?!”
I am notoriously un-generous with myself, a trait I imagine most of my fellow moms share. Our modern American society doesn’t foster much grace towards us to begin with. We are a proud nation of workaholics: the harder we work and the more we sacrifice for our jobs, the more praise we receive and the higher we climb the social and corporate ladders.
But if we choose not to go that route—if we believe a smaller paycheck and/or a richer community and family life is worth our physical and mental wellbeing—all that validation dries up. Then we’re often considered lazy, selfish, unambitious, and unworthy of rest or pleasure.
I can call out this extreme, pride-soaked work ethic because I’ve been on the receiving end of its merciless whip—albeit from a somewhat different place than Workaholic Culture. I grew up in fundamentalist circles that emphasized strict gender roles and taught that unmarried women should embrace “Stay-At-Home Daughterhood.” [1] Since I was unmarried till nearly 31, this put me at odds with concerned friends and family who worried I had no real goals for my life. Defensive and insecure, I lived to prove them wrong.
Everything I did, I did with fiery intensity, dead-set on showing the world that I was anything but lazy.
I also grew up listening to teachers who emphasized a high-octane version of the Protestant work ethic. Hard work and efficiency were highly valued, but for the women who listened to them, the pressure to never take a break, to follow strict homemaking standards, and to yield our own passions to the personal ambitions of the men in our lives was overwhelming. Marriage and motherhood, within this context and these impossibly high standards, were our highest callings. Anything else was a capitulation to “feminism.”
I still wrestle with these false narratives. They whisper in the back of my head, scolding me for using a microwave, debating with my husband, writing instead of washing dishes, or taking a nap instead of writing. They offer me no grace. They offer me no kindness. Their whips crack harder, and I scrunch my shoulders and put my head down, hoping to escape the accusations of lazy, lazy, lazy and selfish, selfish, selfish.
The culture in which I grew up and those who led it named motherhood as one of my two highest callings. They would, of course, never have said it out loud, but they made motherhood our relentless idol.
They were wrong.
The Westminster Shorter Catechism asks, “What is the chief end [purpose] of man,” and then it answers, “Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever.” [2] If the Catechism is right, then glorifying the Triune God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob is the true highest calling of everyone, man and woman. And who is this God? He is a God who gave Himself up for His Bride! He has lavished upon her all His goodness, His beauty, His love, and His unmerited, generous favor. He holds nothing back. He came that we—that I—“may have and enjoy life and have it in abundance [to the full, till it overflows].” [3]
Glorifying and enjoying a God who gave Himself for me and pours His grace upon me means that I don’t have to live the rest of my days stressed-out and afraid. I can rest. I can enjoy the beauty and benefits of the world around me. I can love myself as I have been loved.
And from that love, that grace, that abundance, I can be far more generous towards myself as a mom, a wife, and Imago Dei, than I once believed possible.
The etymology of the word “generous” has something to say about all this:
generous (adj.)
1580s, “of noble birth,” from the French généreux (14c.), from the Latin generosus “of noble birth”; figuratively “magnanimous, generous”; from genus (genitive generis) “race, stock” (from the root *gene- “give birth, beget,” with derivatives referring to procreation and familial and tribal groups).
Secondary senses of “unselfish” (1690s) and “plentiful” (1610s) in English were present in French and in Latin. [4]
“Generosity” hearkens back to birth, family, and stock, tying them all together with suggestions of compassion and plenty. If we thought of generosity toward ourselves in terms of compassion and abundance, what might our lives as individuals and as mothers look like? Would we be less frazzled? More understanding of our children’s individuality as well as our own? More discerning as we sifted through others’ expectations of how we should live versus our actual obligations to ourselves and our families? Quicker to take some time for our own rest and creativity?
In the light of God’s boundless generosity toward us, motherhood doesn’t mean we must resign ourselves to a self-abandoned life with no time for prayer, rest, or play. His generosity instead offers space for us to show ourselves and our children great kindness and abundance. And as we live in the light of His goodness and plenty, we pray that our children will lean with us toward Him like blooms toward the sun.
My husband Casey put up with my dogged martyrdom for only a few weeks. When he found me one day, weeping as the pump sucked out a few ounces of pale, thin milk, he put his foot down.
“It’s time to put this thing away, Maribeth. This isn’t good for you. Molly will do just fine on formula, anyway.”
I looked up at him with red-rimmed, desperate eyes. “But formulas are expensive! And she won’t get the antibodies!”
“There’s plenty of breast milk in the freezer that you can give her if she’s sick. It just isn’t worth it anymore.” He raised his eyebrows over his glasses, a look he gives me when he’s dead-serious. “You need to give this up. For all our sakes.”
I’m afraid I didn’t agree with him right away. First, I researched the awful sensations I had while pumping, hoping to find a different solution. I read Reddit after Reddit thread from mothers who kept or gave up pumping. I agonized over formula options. But the prospect of no longer pumping every few hours—of packing it with me everywhere I went—of no longer feeling those waves of sickness and horror—ended up tipping the scales in my husband’s favor.
I would have more time to spend with my sweet baby. Casey and I would have more of each other. The already-heavy mental load of a new routine with a tiny person would be so, so much lighter.
At that point, too, I was starting to recognize the spiritual pressures and forced expectations I’d suffered under since my teens. The resulting mental and emotional anguish landed me in counseling where I spent the next eight months, naming and healing from the damage done by years of harsh, legalistic theology. For so long, I’d worked myself to the bone trying to live up to unattainable standards in every area of my life that were never the Lord’s to begin with. And it took those first few grueling weeks of motherhood for me to realize that, even after over 20 years of being a Christian, I had never fully accepted His unmerited grace and love towards me.
The utter exhaustion of being a new mother, however, drove me into His arms. There He asked nothing of me but to rest in His love and cherish the precious child for whom I had prayed for years and years. Nothing had gone the way I’d hoped … but even there, His grace was—and continues to be—truly boundless.
Book Recommendations
My mom (who breastfed all nine of her children, so she knows a thing or two about the rigors of motherhood) often reminds me: “Self-care isn’t self-indulgence. It’s taking good care of yourself so you can take good care of others.”
Over the years, I’ve enjoyed several books that have encouraged me in the same vein. As an over-achiever, a perfectionist, and a rule-follower, it’s all too easy for me to slip into a spartan way of life. The following books, however, remind me to take a deep breath, remember the goodness of God, and show great grace and compassion towards myself:
- Aggressively Happy: A Realist’s Guide to Believing in the Goodness of Life by Joy Marie Clarkson
- Try Softer: A Fresh Approach to Move Us out of Anxiety, Stress, and Survival Mode—and into a Life of Connection and Joy by Aundi Kobler (MA, LPC)
- Refresh: Embracing a Grace-Paced Life in a World of Endless Demands by Shona and David Murray
- When Strivings Cease: Replacing the Gospel of Self-Improvement with the Gospel of Life-Transforming Grace by Ruth Chou Simons
[1] Holmes, Jasmine L. “Regrets of a ‘Stay-At-Home’ Daughter.” February 19, 2018. https://jasminelholmes.com/regrets-of-staying-home/.
[2] The Westminster Shorter Catechism, https://prts.edu/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Shorter_Catechism.pdf.
[3] John 10:10, Amplified Version
[4] “Etymology of ‘Generous’ by Etymonline,” Etymonline, https://www.etymonline.com/word/generous.
Maribeth Barber Albritton is a wife, mother, and storyteller. She serves as Director of Media and Communications for Cultivating Oaks Pxress and has contributed to the production of Cultivating Magazine’s print editions. She also served as Executive Assistant at The C.S. Lewis Foundation from 2022-2024.
Maribeth has a deep love for history, literature, and film. These keen interests inspired her debut science-fiction novel, Operation Lionhearted, as well as her blog, “A Writer’s Tale,” where she wrote a number of book and movie reviews from the angle of the Christian imagination. These days, she writes “Letters from Crickhollow,” a Substack for those who want to cultivate beauty, grace, and courage in their busy lives.
Maribeth, her pastor-husband Casey, and their daughter Molly currently live in their home state of southeast Louisiana.
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