Elli Jacobs
The transition into motherhood is a time of new things – new baby, new routine, new identity. Yet, for many women, this season also comes with a loss. Amid the relentless caregiving, the “mother” is born but the “woman” may feel she’s been left behind.
According to Pree Benton, registered health psychologist at the Maternal and Infant Wellness Melbourne clinic, “the identity shift of matrescence [the process of becoming a mother] can leave women disconnected from their former selves” and lead to feelings of loneliness.
“Motherhood is intensive work, often done without the ‘village’ of support previous generations relied on,” adds Benton. “Even surrounded by family or friends, mothers can experience social loneliness when their reality isn’t mirrored by those around them.”
This maternal loneliness isn’t only an emotional experience, it’s a biological stressor. According to Benton, it is linked to reduced physical activity, poorer diet, higher blood pressure, cardiovascular disease, substance abuse and even suicidal ideation.
Prevention is key. “Strengthening partner relationships, building self-compassion and accessing specialised perinatal care can help mothers feel seen and supported,” Benton says. “Programs such as day stays, baby classes, yoga and expert one-on-one support combine practical care with emotional connection.”
“I didn’t fit the parenting mould”: Laura McConnell, 46
“My sense of loneliness came from two places: being a queer parent and choosing a different parenting structure. I never wanted to be the primary parent, partly because of my queerness, partly because of my worldview, and partly because of how my relationships worked. My son was mostly cared for by his dad, who had always dreamed of being a parent, so it made sense for him to take the lead while I was the secondary parent. Yet, in every space we entered, the default assumption was that I was the ‘main’ parent.
When I first stepped into parenting settings – mothers’ groups, local meet-ups – in 2018, I expected connection. Instead, I never quite fitted in. The conversations revolved around sleep routines, breastfeeding and the daily nuances of caring for a baby, things I didn’t know in detail. My role was closer to what people typically expect of a father: evenings and weekends, not the day-to-day grind. In many ways, my entry into parenthood mirrored that of a cisgender, heterosexual man.
Six weeks after giving birth, I returned to my accounting job, expecting to slip back in as easily as the fathers I’d seen do it. I was again wrong.
Judgment came quickly – offhand remarks in meetings, little digs about how I ‘should’ be at home, and the sense that I wasn’t the ‘right’ kind of mother. When people asked, ‘So, who’s looking after the baby?’ and I’d answer, ‘his father’, they’d blink in surprise, follow up with, ‘Oh … so he feeds the baby?’ as if bottles were a shocking invention, then change the subject. My family structure disrupted expectations: a man as the primary, nurturing parent still unsettles many. Eventually, I left the stigma and whispers behind to build a brand on my own terms, a choice that felt liberating.
Eventually, I found my people online, in Facebook groups, in TikTok videos, queer parents of all genders navigating the rigid roles of ‘mother’ and ‘father’ and sharing their daily lives, their wins and their mistakes. I saw my story reflected and I no longer felt alone.
We need more open conversations about gender roles in parenting, more space for women who don’t want to be the primary parent and for families that don’t follow traditional scripts. Queer parenting isn’t just valid, it’s vital. If I could rewrite parenting spaces, both online and in real life, I’d start by adding more men.
If I could go back, I’d tell myself to be ready for the loneliness. No one warns you about it when your life doesn’t match the template. But once you find your people – even scattered across time zones – you realise you were never truly alone; you were just waiting for the right crowd to walk beside you.”
“I never expected to feel so lonely”: Mandy Jackson, 45
“I experienced glimpses of loneliness with my first two children as I transitioned from spending time with friends and colleagues to spending my days at home. As my life became centred around activities for my children, I found I was connecting with other mothers over tantrums, teething, sleep and shared-parenting milestones. But after my son’s disability diagnosis, loneliness settled in.
Disability brings invisible barriers, and when your child has vulnerabilities, the pressures of mothering feel as though they’re intensifying. My days became a repetitive cycle of work, school runs, extracurricular activities, therapies, long drives for support services, and interventions at home. Even with a strong family unit and a team of professionals to support my son, I still felt misunderstood. That’s the paradox of maternal loneliness: you can be surrounded by people and yet feel utterly alone.
The turning point came when my youngest was about five. I was exhausted and began to ask myself why it was so hard. This question exposed the ‘good mother’ myth, which pressured me to search for silver linings, dismissed my lived experience, measured my worth by how much I gave, and portrayed self-care as selfish unless it served others. Being a mother is my greatest privilege, but it doesn’t require self-erasure.
Reconnecting with my body became my greatest form of self-care. A simple walk was a small but powerful moment that broke the routine and opened space for nurturing social connections. I looked at which expectations I could let go of, so I could return to myself and the work I loved. Writing my book, Motherhood and Matrescence: The Truths We Were Never Told, nourished a part of me that I had neglected for far too long.
To mothers silently feeling lonely, I say you are worthy of your own time and energy. Acting on that truth helps you find genuine connection with yourself and others, and this has benefits for your mental and physical wellbeing.”
“I faced maternal loneliness in its rawest form”: Samantha Payne, 42
“In 2015, my world shifted. After the joy of Georgie’s birth in 2013, I longed to become a mother again. But when I finally fell pregnant, the pregnancy ended in miscarriage just eight weeks along.
Originally from the UK, I was far from family. I turned to my GP for support, hoping for guidance and empathy. Instead, I was told, ‘These things happen.’ That was it. No follow-up. No acknowledgment of the loss. I went home and tried to carry on, alone. The loneliness began at that moment.
My second miscarriage, in February 2016, again at the eight-week mark, hit even harder. Night terrors and panic attacks took hold. Again, no one offered support. And when I say ‘no one,’ I don’t just mean medical staff – my family and friends were also ill-equipped to help. That I was the only one in my friendship circle going through a miscarriage while others were having healthy pregnancies only compounded the isolation. Later, when I struggled to conceive again, I felt myself drift even further from them.
Finding language for my experience came over coffee with Gabby, whom I met through a mutual friend. She had endured six miscarriages, so understood what I was going through without me needing to explain. That encounter planted the seed for Pink Elephants, a not-for-profit I co-founded with Gabby, which challenges the silence of the 12-week rule and ensures no one faces pregnancy loss alone.
When I became pregnant again in 2017, fear shadowed every moment. I couldn’t trust my body to carry a baby to term, even as everyone around me celebrated. I felt trapped between my inner dread and the world’s expectation of happiness.
After my son Johnny was born, postpartum anxiety consumed me. I was drowning in those first four months, yet no one noticed. The combination of past loss and anxiety deepened my loneliness.
Then, in the isolation of COVID in July 2020, I miscarried again. My grief was compounded not only by the physical isolation of the pandemic and the heartbreak of attending scans without my partner, but also by the unspoken pressure to share my third loss publicly, in real time, as an advocate in this space. When our baby girl Rose arrived in early 2022, she was the light that finally broke through the long stretch of darkness.”
For pregnancy loss and stillbirth support, contact 1300 308 307.
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