You cannot pour from an empty cup — and that is not a weakness

On matrescence, mental health, and the radical act of looking after yourself.

Nobody tells you about matrescence.

They tell you about labour. They tell you about feeding schedules and car seat safety and which pram to buy. They tell you that you’ll be tired, though nothing quite prepares you for the specific, bone-deep exhaustion of new motherhood. But almost nobody tells you that becoming a mother is one of the most seismic psychological, neurological, and hormonal shifts a human being can go through. That it changes not just your life, but you, at a cellular level.

And then we wonder why so many mothers are quietly struggling.

What is matrescence?

Matrescence is the process of becoming a mother. The word was coined by anthropologist Dana Raphael in the 1970s, but it has taken decades to enter mainstream conversation and it still isn’t taught in schools, discussed at antenatal appointments, or given anything close to the recognition it deserves.

Think of adolescence, that well-documented period of upheaval when the body changes, the brain rewires, emotions run high, and identity shifts profoundly. We accept that teenagers need support, understanding, and space to navigate that transition. We build entire frameworks around it.

Matrescence is the same scale of change. Different, but equally enormous.

What is actually happening inside you

During pregnancy and the postpartum period, the brain undergoes measurable structural changes. Grey matter is remodelled, not lost, but reorganised, in ways that sharpen social cognition, deepen emotional attunement, and heighten vigilance. In other words, your brain is literally being restructured to help you tune into your baby. That is extraordinary. It is also exhausting.

Hormonally, the transition is one of the most dramatic of any life event. Oestrogen and progesterone, which have been sky-high throughout pregnancy, plummet within hours of giving birth. Prolactin surges if you are breastfeeding. Oxytocin floods in during skin-to-skin contact. Cortisol, the stress hormone, is frequently elevated. For many women, this hormonal cocktail contributes to low mood, anxiety, emotional volatility, and a feeling of being unlike yourself and yet it is almost never spoken about in those terms.

And then there is identity. Who were you before? Who are you now? Matrescence asks us to hold both versions of ourselves at once, the woman we were and the mother we are becoming. That tension is real. The grief for your former self is real. It does not mean you don’t love your baby. It means you are human.

We were never taught any of this

We learn about puberty in school. We are given, however imperfectly, some framework for understanding what is happening to our bodies and minds during adolescence. But matrescence? Nothing. Not a word.

Instead, mothers are handed a newborn and sent home with the unspoken expectation that they will manage, that love will be enough, that instinct will kick in, that they will figure it out. And most do figure it out. But “figuring it out” in isolation, without language for what you’re experiencing, without acknowledgement that this is genuinely hard, takes a toll.

The silence around matrescence doesn’t just leave mothers uninformed, it leaves them feeling like something is wrong with them. When you don’t know that the fog, the overwhelm, the loss of self, the anxiety, and the strange grief are all a recognised part of a profound life transition, you conclude instead that you are failing. That you are not coping as well as everyone else. That you should be enjoying this more.

You cannot pour from an empty cup

Here is the truth that no one says loudly enough: looking after yourself is not indulgent. It is not selfish. It is not something to feel guilty about. It is the foundation upon which everything else rests.

When your cup is empty, when you are running on no sleep, no support, no time to think or breathe or feel like a person, you have nothing left to give. Not to your baby. Not to your partner. Not to anyone. The depletion doesn’t just affect you; it ripples outward.

Filling your cup back up does not have to be a spa day or a week away (though both sound wonderful). It can be small. It can be a minute – just one minute – of standing barefoot on the ground, feeling the earth beneath your feet, and breathing slowly and deeply into your belly.

The power of one breath

It sounds almost too simple. But slow, deep belly breathing, what physiologists call diaphragmatic breathing, directly activates the parasympathetic nervous system. It tells your body, at a biological level, that you are safe. It lowers cortisol. It slows the heart rate. It shifts you, even momentarily, out of fight-or-flight and into rest.

When everything feels like too much, when the noise is relentless and the demands never stop, a single conscious breath is a way back to yourself. And you deserve to find your way back to yourself. Every single day.

On mum guilt

Mum guilt is almost universal  and almost always misplaced. It whispers that you should be doing more, giving more, feeling more grateful, enjoying this more. It tells you that taking five minutes for yourself is time stolen from your baby. It makes rest feel like laziness and self-care feel like selfishness.

But consider this: when you take that breath, when you go to that yoga class, when you ask for help, when you sleep while someone else holds the baby, you are not abandoning your child. You are modelling something vital. You are showing them, from the very beginning, that your needs matter. That rest is allowed. That you are a person, not just a function. That is not a failure of motherhood. That is one of its greatest lessons.

Matrescence is a becoming. It is difficult and disorienting and deeply, surprisingly beautiful. You are allowed to find it hard. You are allowed to find it wonderful. You are allowed to find it both at once.

And you are allowed to take up space, for yourself, in the middle of all of it.