Wait… wasn’t I supposed to have a village?

There’s a quiet moment that comes for many new parents. It occurs sometime after the first haze of the newborn days, the days where everyone wanted to see a tiny newborn. It’s a moment where you look around and think, “Wait… wasn’t I supposed to have a village?”

You picture what it was meant to look like: people dropping by with casseroles, folding washing while you nurse, someone who tells you to go have a shower and hands you a coffee when you emerge. Someone to tell you that you’re doing great, that your baby seems connected to you, that you look amazing (even if you know that one might be an exaggeration). A gentle hum of community around you ~ others holding you while you hold your baby.

Instead, what most mothers find is a kind of stillness. The house feels too quiet. The messages slow down. The people who visited once to meet your baby don’t return. You make the tea, you ask about their day, and you wonder if maybe you were naïve to expect more.

Perhaps you had people promise to be there, or perhaps you took what you saw on social media or in movies to be the expected outcome. No matter where the picture originated, waves of grief, resentment, disappointment arise as you lean on one friend, or your partner, or your parents… or perhaps no one at all.

How It Used to Be

We were never meant to parent in isolation. For most of human history, we lived within a literal village. Our mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunties, friends and neighbours all rallied by the side of the new parents to provide a network of true support. A crying baby was never just one person’s responsibility. There were arms ready to help, stories shared, guidance offered, work divided.

In those communities, parenthood was visible. It was held in company. Rest was assumed, care was communal, and the weight of new life was shared.

Now, in modern life, we often live far from family, with partners back at work, friends tied up in their own busy-ness, and systems that prize self-sufficiency above connection. There’s no collective rhythm anymore. We parents exist with just us and our babies, with only pockets of support that come and go.

The Modern Village

Today’s “village” looks different. It might be a mother’s group that meets once a week, a late-night text to another mum who just gets it, or an online space where you can say the things you can’t say out loud. Sometimes it’s a neighbour dropping soup at the door, or a friend who doesn’t need you to tidy before they come in.

These fragments of community can matter deeply. But they rarely add up to the kind of daily, built-in support we were designed for. And it shows.

Isolation is one of the strongest predictors of postnatal depression and anxiety. In Australia, the recorded statistics indicate that one in five mothers will experience postnatal depression. My opinion is that it is far higher than this. So many parents won’t reach out for help until long after they’ve been struggling, and so many more never reach out at all.

When we’re alone too much, everything feels heavier. The crying, the nights, the decisions, the mental noise of it all holds weight in an entirely different way.

Expectation vs. Reality

Before motherhood, there’s an idea that people will show up and nurture you — hold the baby so you can sleep, bring a coffee, ask with intention about your experience of motherhood (with a readiness to hear the real answer) . But what often happens is one visit, one gift, and then silence. The expectation of the village gives way to the reality of you.

People tend to show up most in the early “fourth trimester,” when babies are small and sleepy and everyone wants a cuddle. But the harder moments often come later. You baby starts to become a whole person, with needs outside of just ‘sleep ~ eat ~ change ~ repeat’. They are awake more than they sleep, you’re touched-out and overstimulated, and your sense of self and identity outside of the beautiful monotony of parenting becomes a distant memory. By then, the help has usually gone.

Moving Beyond the “Fourth Trimester”

The “fourth trimester” gives language to those first raw months, but it can also suggest that the transition ends there. It’s not realistic to expect that you should be “back to yourself”, or feeling confident in parenting by three months postpartum. The truth is, you don’t go back, you go through ~ and ‘confident’ may never be the word that comes to mind when we describe parenting (more like… muddling through?)

The word for the ongoing process of becoming a mother is matrescence. It’s as physical, emotional, and identity-shifting as adolescence. It doesn’t end when your baby starts solids. It continues as you navigate sleep regressions, identity loss, returning to work, shifting relationships, and the sheer magnitude of what it means to be responsible for another human being. This process unfolds over years, with many aspects of matrescence being lifelong, particularly in the way parenting continues to shape self-perception, relationships, and emotional growth.

And yet, society’s attention wanes right as matrescence deepens. You’re still in transition ~ but the world has moved on.

The Pull to Retreat

When isolation lingers, it can start to fold in on itself. You might find yourself declining invitations, feeling irritated by others’ lightness, resenting people who don’t understand, or telling yourself it’s easier not to try.

Sometimes, beneath that withdrawal, there’s a slow-burning rage. Rage that nobody told you it would be this lonely. Rage that people don’t see how hard you’re trying. Rage that you’re expected to “enjoy it” while barely holding it together.

That rage isn’t wrong. It’s a protest, and an internal signalling to care for yourself. It’s a signal that your need for connection, care, and being held has gone unmet.

Reaching Out, Honestly

And still, even in that exhaustion, something in you might ache for contact. Not the polished, “I’m fine” kind, but the real kind. Where you can show up and sit with someone to tell them that you are not coping, and have them hear you and hold that.

Sometimes, when we show that truth to someone safe, they draw closer. They understand in a way they didn’t before. Sometimes they don’t, and they turn away from you when you need them most. The disappointment and resentment that follow are real, and they deserve space.

We hold hope that somewhere in the middle of the ideal outcome of connection, and the potential reality of rejection, that there can be a small opening, which can be the start of rebuilding what the village should have been. One honest conversation, one person who really sees you, one offer of help that you let land. Maybe this is friends and family that will hear you and come to the rescue, or maybe its a network of professional or charitable services that take away some of the heaviness you hold.

You were never meant to mother in silence. The village might not look the way it used to, but piece by piece, through honesty and reaching out, it can begin again.

If you’re yearning for a steadier hand or a softer place to land, please reach out. We can walk this part of the journey together.

You are very welcome to contact me using the form below, or book in for a call if you’d like to explore whether working together feels right for you.