Words by Haylee Penfold
Becoming the first mum in my friend group was one of the most unexpected challenges of early motherhood. The shift in myself came gradually during the pregnancy, then all at once when he arrived—It’s hard to put into words how quickly my sense of self changed. Overnight, it felt like I had become someone entirely new. I hoped I would like her. I hoped my friends would too.
During pregnancy, motherhood still felt distant, like something happening later, eventually. Aside from not drinking—something I rarely did anyway—I was still out dancing with my friends, laughing, living as I always had, just with a growing bump. But the moment I held my baby in my arms, everything shifted. As I introduced my closest friends to my newborn son, it hit me: maybe they weren’t just meeting him for the first time. Maybe, in that moment, they were also meeting the new version of me.
There was a steady rhythm of visits in those early weeks, our circle coming to meet our delicate new arrival. Everyone would marvel at how tiny he was, asking with wide eyes how we managed to create something so perfect. I’d smile and ask how they were, what was new in their world, and every time it struck me how wildly mine had changed while theirs remained very much the same. I never once regretted becoming a mother, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a small ache for the version of me who used to be right there with them.
For a while, my partner and I tried to keep up—maybe out of hope, or habit, or just a need to hold onto some sliver of our old life. We showed up to movie nights, pram and nappy bag in tow, taking turns nursing our son while trying to keep up with the conversation. Laughs and gossip were frequently paused for nappy changes, burps, or sudden cries. And before the clock struck eleven, we were packing up, yawning, and slipping out the door. In our old world, that would’ve been an early exit. In this new one, we were already running on empty.
Maybe that’s when it really sank in—we weren’t who we used to be. I started to pull away, and the baby blues rolled in like a heavy tide, dragging me under. I felt lost in it all. My clothes didn’t feel like mine anymore, and my days became a blur of feeds, nappy changes, and wake windows. Outside of that rhythm, I wasn’t sure who I was. It felt a lot like grief—for the life I had, for the version of me that suddenly felt so far away.
Between who I was and who I was becoming, there was this uncomfortable in-between. The person that was on cloud nine with this tiny miracle in her arms, but at the same time missed being the young twenty-something with her friends. It got easier to live with the FOMO of nights out, and make the best of our nights in rather than push through and try and remain the same. And even though there are still days I miss my childless self, I’m learning to love the new version of me—the mother and the woman I am becoming.
It’s not the same as before, but it’s something just as meaningful. I’ve realised that the connection with my circle hasn’t faded—it’s simply evolving. Our plans have shifted from late Saturday nights on the dance floor to slow Sunday brunches with high chairs, bottles and nappy changes. And in that shift, I’ve come to see my friends for what they truly are now: the village I always hoped for, helping me raise my son.
