It’s Monday, I’m working from home, and for the first time in a long time, I’m painting my own nails—consistently. I haven’t done this since I was pregnant. I remember how much I loved it, watching YouTube tutorials, carefully applying layer after layer. I like soft, delicate colors, and for them to look right, you need at least three coats. Maybe writing this sounds ridiculously trivial, but talking about what I do makes me feel like a person.
Last week, an interview with writer Mariana Enriquez went viral where she openly stated that she didn’t want to be a mother. And, of course, the internet exploded: yes, no, she’s right, she’s wrong. I can’t believe that in 2025, we’re still debating whether someone wants to have kids or not.
Do you want children? Great. You don’t want children? Also great. Will you miss out on things? Maybe. But I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on anything that truly mattered.
Still, I admit there are moments when I don’t feel like a person. Not in a victimized way or as some self-sacrificing statement. I have, at times, lost myself a little but the person I’m becoming is infinitely better.
Why don’t I feel like a person? Because for three years, I have put myself second to everything. Even my basic needs have been on hold. Sometimes, I’m hungry, but I can’t eat. I need to use the bathroom, but I can’t. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I’m thirsty, but I left my water bottle on the bus, and I won’t drink from my baby’s because I don’t know when she’ll need it next. I want to step outside and get some fresh air, but I stay home. I want to finish a work project, but I’m needed elsewhere. Even my body isn’t my own anymore—not even the way it looks, the way it feels. My thoughts revolve around someone else: What does she need? What should she eat? Do I have to do laundry? What would make her happy? Is she happy? And by now, maybe this sounds like a horror story. But it’s not. I wouldn’t trade motherhood for anything. For the first time, I feel like my existence has a purpose.
Before, I was constantly chasing the next goal, the next project, the next thing to achieve—only to feel nothing once I got there. Two years ago, I published the first-ever book on Patagonian music—one of my biggest achievements as a journalist—and do you know what it really meant to me? Not much, if I’m being honest.
(The topic of self-imposed pressure during postpartum is another issue entirely—and one I’ll address later.)
When you’re pregnant, everyone cares about you. Then, the baby is born, and most people forget you exist. And that’s when things start getting complicated. Suddenly, everyone wants to be part of the story, but few people stop to think about how you’re feeling. You’re going through the most vulnerable stage of your life, but you don’t always ask for help, because you don’t even know how to ask. And sure, maybe you have a supportive partner, but even with all the help in the world, these feelings will still come up because people around you act weird anyway.
I could blame society, and I’d be right. Everything is designed to make mothers invisible. Why is it that the only people who truly seem to understand this are usually other mothers?
My mom was everything during this stage. I didn’t think it was possible to love her more, but here we are. There’s a movement that encourages people to take care of the mother because the baby is already being taken care of. But reality often looks different. They take the baby from your arms. They question your every decision. They push you aside. They don’t consider you at all. And suddenly, it’s not just that your basic needs aren’t being met, but you socially stop existing. That’s when you feel even less like a person.
And let’s not even get started on work.
Now that you’re a mom, you don’t count as much professionally either. Before, you could lock yourself in your office all weekend to meet deadlines. You could work from 8 AM to 8 PM—of course, for a ridiculously low salary, because hello, wage gap. #brechasalarial
And now? Not so much.
People say: "Now that you’re a mom, you just can’t do as much..."
And that makes you want to prove them wrong. Even if they kind of have a point—because no one should be defined or limited like that. And suddenly, you feel even less like a person. Like a pen that’s running out of ink. It still works, just not as well. And people leave it there, just in case, but it’s no longer their first choice. And in that moment, you feel even less like a person. I’m not saying I haven’t had privileges disguised as rights or that I don’t have a partner who shares parenting responsibilities equally. But this post isn’t about that. Understanding that I feel less like a person is actually a way to start feeling more like one.
Because I am a person. And I like things. And I want things. I like painting my nails. I like Radiohead, The Ramones, and Taylor Swift. I like writing. I like reading. I like taking photos. I like being invited to things, even if I can’t always go. I like being considered. I like when people believe that I can.
Understanding is always the first step. Writing this blog is a way of understanding myself.
I am a person.
You are a person.
And motherhood is not to blame for any of this.
Which is exactly why things can change.
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