Last week, the students had returned to campus, and the residence hall buzzed with their excitement for the start of the spring semester. Their chatter echoed through the hallways as I stepped out of my staff apartment, Amara wrapped snugly against my chest, to take out the trash. A wave of unexpected shame crept over me. What are they thinking of me—a woman with a baby—living here in a college residence hall?
For context, after leaving the K–12 classroom, I transitioned into higher education and now work as a residence hall director. My home is nestled within a building that houses 650 college students, most of whom are 19 years old and still figuring out life. I love my job—it’s rewarding in ways I didn’t expect—but living among hundreds of students with developing brains and opinions influenced by their upbringing isn’t for the faint of heart.
Still, as I stood there holding Amara, I felt the weight of those opinions, real or imagined. Why did I care what they thought about me? Why was my body reacting as if I’d done something wrong?
One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned in recovery is this: every emotion, even discomfort, is an opportunity to learn about myself. So I leaned into the feeling and began to examine it.
I realized the shame wasn’t coming from the students. It was rooted in societal norms I hadn’t yet confronted. I’m no stranger to unpacking these norms—deciding which ones serve me and which don’t. For example, when I sold my house in Louisville to move into my sister’s guest room in Tampa, it might have looked like failure from the outside. But that house wasn’t helping me stay sober, and I needed a fresh start. Or when I intentionally chose to remain childless for years, despite societal pressure, until I felt ready to fully show up as a mother.
Yet, despite my past work on rejecting certain societal expectations, I hadn’t done that same work for my transition into motherhood. The shame I felt in front of those students came from internalized messages like these:
- You should be married before having children.
- You should own a house to raise a child.
- Both parents should live under the same roof.
As I broke down each belief, clarity emerged. None of these things defined the kind of mother I wanted to be. What matters most is how I show up for my daughter. In Mother Hunger, Kelly McDaniel describes the ideal mother as one who nurtures, provides guidance, and protects her child. That’s the kind of mother I am striving to be. I don’t need a marriage certificate, a house, or a traditional living arrangement to do that. What I need is to hold tight to my sobriety, which provides the foundation for everything else.
So the next time you feel shame creeping in, pause. Slow down and examine it. Ask yourself: Is this shame because of something I’ve done that makes me feel unworthy of connection? Or is it because I’ve bought into a narrative that doesn’t truly serve me?
For me, letting go of those narratives has made room for something much greater: the freedom to show up for Amara as the mother I always hoped I could be.
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