Matrescence: The Unravelling

A Different Thread

This post follows on from last week’s reflections on matrescence and metamorphosis. Today I’m picking up a different thread – the one that unravels.

Matrescence: The Unravelling is the name I gave this artwork. But it could just as easily be called Tender and Tangled, like this blog. Along with last week's analogy of caterpillar soup, one of the strongest images I’ve found to describe matrescence has been that of coming undone.

Have you ever experienced this: you see a loose thread on some clothing and you pull it slightly, thinking that might fix it, but instead it just unravels and quickly becomes out of control. You’re left wondering "Whoa – how did that happen? Can I ever fix this?"

That’s how early motherhood felt for me. Things were kind of hard … and then they got really hard. I felt like I was quickly unravelling and I didn't know how to stop it.

Coming Undone

By the time my first baby was six months old, I was already dreaming of another.

By the time my second baby was six months old, I was done.

The teeny tiny clothes, the swaddles, the blankies and other newborn paraphernalia – things I’d once folded with care and delight – started getting passed on with quiet relief. Not because I didn’t love my babies. Not because I didn’t think they were so dang cute. But because something in me was fraying.

Sometimes it sounded like, Thank goodness I don’t need that anymore.
Other times, just a gentler: I’ve finished with that now.

I felt like I was losing myself in motherhood. I wasn’t sure who I was becoming, or if I’d ever feel stitched back together again.

A Tipping Point

Like adolescence, matrescence looks different for everyone. Some feel it most with their first baby. For me, it hit hardest with my second.

The increased load – the multi-tasking, the level of organisation required, the sensory overwhelm, the juggle of caring for so many needs at once – pushed me to my limit. I know I’m not alone in finding the transition to two children overwhelming. As I discovered later, when pregnant again, surprise third babies aren’t uncommon.

Holding On

I felt like I had to hold onto my heart – the core part of myself – fiercely, so that it wouldn't come undone and get lost in the chaos too. I didn't know what motherhood would look like long-term. When – or if – it would start to get easier. But I was determined to hold onto myself and hope that the deepest parts of me would hold strong through this unravelling.

I had to trust that these threads that were coming undone and getting tangled up would, at some stage, be the same threads to create a new tapestry.

Something even more beautiful, even stronger, than what was there before.

Wintering

That season felt like winter. Yes, there’s beauty – but there’s also trees stripped bare and bleak skies.

But I had to believe that spring would return. That I would see buds forming – signs of hope and colour of new life that was coming. I had to trust that winter doesn't last forever.

Support That Sees Us

So much of this unravelling happens in secret. My story is not unique in that it was only once I had really come undone that I sought professional help. But we need supports that are more than just a clean-up team. We shouldn't be waiting for women to fall apart and find themselves in a tangled mess before they receive the help they need.

We need early, preventative support — systems that recognise the slow unravel before it turns into collapse. Support that listens. That validates. That wraps around mothers when they’re still holding it together by a thread, not only after the thread has snapped.

Threads of Support

There were many threads that helped me become the tapestry I am now.

Some were woven early — faith, values, things I couldn’t fully name at the time but that held me steady when everything else felt undone. Others were added later, when I reached out for professional help: Enhanced Maternal and Child Health Nurse service, GPs, psychologists, family support services.

I’m grateful for the women I met online - particularly during the lockdown years - through programs and communities created for mothers like me who felt tangled.

But I wish I’d sought help earlier. I wish I’d told someone — a GP, a nurse, a friend — just how difficult things had become and they weren’t getting easier. I wish I'd expressed my confusion: I love my kids so much. I feel like I'm doing all the "right" things as a mother. So why am I finding it so hard?

But when you’re in the thick of it, vulnerability can feel like one more thread about to snap.

This is part of why I care so deeply about raising awareness of matrescence, and of ADHD in women. When health professionals are educated about these experiences, they’re more likely to recognise the signs of a mother unravelling — and gently start the conversations she may not know how to begin.

What I Wish I'd Known

I also wish I’d known how to support myself. That painting wasn’t self-indulgent — it was a lifeline. That solitude wasn’t selfish — it was soul-saving. That creativity, rest, and alignment with my values weren’t extras — they were essential.

And I wish I’d somehow been able to protect myself from succumbing to societal expectations and known that executive function challenges aren’t a character flaw, or a reflection of how much I love my kids. It's just part of how my brain works.

Barriers Still Remain

I know what it’s like to reach out and not know if you’ll be heard. I know what it’s like to be aware of support, but not have the time, money, energy, or childcare to access it. I know the frustration of I need help in caring for my kids ... but because I'm caring for my kids, getting to an appointment feel impossible.

So yes — support exists. But it still needs to be accessible — in cost, in design, in delivery. And it needs to be available before a mother comes completely undone.

When a mother is deeply struggling, maybe the question is not Why didn’t she ask for help?
But What would have made it easier for her to ask sooner?

One Stitch

I have learned that something is better than nothing. Any support can help to lighten the load, even if it’s not ideal or regular.

A one-off clean isn't the same as regular help, but it's better than nothing.

Seeing a psychologist with kids in tow isn't ideal, but it's better than not going at all.

A few text messages to a friend isn’t as good as a full conversation, but it can remind you you’re not alone.

Calling a hotline with a baby on your boob and a toddler pulling at your leg might feel messy, but it’s connection.

Sometimes, one moment of help is enough to breathe again.

It's not everything. But it's something.
And when you're unravelling, something can be a thread to hold onto.

You don’t have to stitch up every thread at once. Choose one to start with.

Just one stitch.

A Thread For You

Have you seen signs in yourself or in those you support of unravelling?

What’s one small thing – one thread – that you could tend to today with gentleness?

Let's Stay Connected

If this post stirred something in you, I'd love to hear from you. You can find me over on Instagram and Facebook, where I share more about motherhood, art and neurodivergence.

Featured artwork:

Matrescence: The Unravelling