How Motherhood Made Me Braver
When I was five or six years old, burglars broke through the sliding glass door leading into my bedroom in order to ransack our home. We weren’t in the house at the time, but I was still scarred for life. I mean, for LIFE. I used to have weekly dreams that burglars would break in, and I’d befriend them by offering up every stuffed animal I owned, that way they wouldn’t hurt me.
That was 26 years ago, and it wasn’t until recently that I wasn’t convinced any creak or tapping meant imminent murder. For most of my teenage and young adult life, I would let these worst case scenario possibilities completely cripple me in the moment. We’re talking phone calls to my parents from under my bed when I was home alone in high school, 100% positive that the pick up truck pulling into the driveway was a human slayer, only to find out it was the pest control people. This is not the only example of my freak-outs, but I hesitate to share more because I’d rather not look like a complete maniac.
When Anders was 7 weeks old, he and I began living by ourselves in our two story home in a safe, middle class neighborhood of Virginia Beach. Some might even call it upper-middle class. Aaron was out to sea, and I felt it was time to leave my parents’ house, where they’d been helping me with my newborn. I had no real reason to be afraid on our first night alone, other than usual jitters of being new at caring for a baby. And then I woke up to loud bangs at 11 p.m. Could it be…fireworks? In February? Anders was sleeping directly across the hall in his crib, and I was on high alert, but relatively calm. About four minutes later, I noticed lots of red and blue lights blinking through the bedroom window. I peered outside to see swarms of cop cars, a canine unit, and policemen all over the street. ARE YOU SERIOUS??
I quietly slipped downstairs and stepped into my front yard to see what the commotion was all about. I’d equate this to stupid people walking down into their dark basements to investigate a noise, except I liked my odds since po-po were around. One of the police officers came up to me and told me to go back inside. I asked if everything was safe, and he assured me it was, but they needed neighbors to stay in their houses. Real comforting. Thanks for all of that riveting information, sir.
Normally, by this time, I would’ve assumed there was a serial killer on the loose, and odds are he was hiding out in my backyard. Luckily one of my neighbors texted me and told me her cousin was a police officer, who’d relayed information to her that some troubled teen a few houses down got into a shoot out with drug dealers. A “shoot-out.” What the actual… Yep, in our quiet little neighborhood. They’d yet to catch the culprits, but luckily no one seemed to be hurt.
Obviously, I slept in Anders’ room to be near him the rest of the night, but for the first time in the face of a scary situation, I felt…different. I double-checked that our alarm system was on, and had a bit of trouble sleeping, but I wasn’t absolutely reeling in fear.
Why? Why wasn’t I absolutely losing my mind with vivid imagery?
It wasn’t that I was no longer convinced we were out of the woods and nothing bad would ever happen to me. I hadn’t completely let go of my need to always have an escape route or hide away method. After all, my plan of action if the alarm went off was to quickly use our heavy safety bar stashed in the room (one in each bedroom!) to lock Anders and me in his room and wait for police to arrive. That imagery and tactical strategy was still well in place.
But I had an epiphany that night, laying in the single bed in my baby’s nursery while listening to the faint voices of cops outside my house. Becoming a mother had made me brave.
Before having Anders, I couldn’t fathom ever having to fight for my life. I always imagined hiding or screaming or coming up with some brilliant way to talk myself out of trouble. I felt entirely vulnerable and wimpy. Now with Anders, there was literally no question in my mind that if I heard a bad guy coming up the stairs, I would charge straight at him before he could get to my baby’s room. Give me a curtain rod or pepper spray or even a gun—which the thought of touching used to paralyze me—and I would do what needed to be done.
This switch was wild. I mean, it became a complete given that I would face my greatest fear if it meant protecting my son. Serial killer in the backyard? Petty thief? Kidnapper? You have to get through me, bud, and I will DESTROY YOU.
No joke, you guys, I haven’t had a nightmare about burglary ever since that evening. I mean, I don’t want to deal with any bad guys— but I would. And that fact alone has given me so much more rest in the dark hours of the night that used to be filled with wide-eyed tension and prickled skin.
I definitely used to be one of those people who said she could never live in a house. Apartments felts safer. People don’t get murdered in apartments!! Any form of isolation is a recipe for danger. Now, I fully enjoy our home in Alaska with its mountain-view and quiet street. I still prioritize safety and locks and shutting blinds, but I rarely feel afraid. I’m not sure I’d do well in a giant house with a billion entryways and hiding places, but our comfortable three bedroom happy place fills me only with good feels and comfort.
I had a few single friends visit a few months back, and they told me they don’t know if they could ever live in a house, even one like mine. My ears perked up. Wait, I’m not the only one who faced this debilitating fear?? For so long, I thought I was just a particularly skittish kitten. Turns out, at-home safety is a pretty common concern for singles and nonparents—particularly women. I hate that fear of other humans is such a common experience, but man am I grateful that I’ve been granted a new strength. There are about one million new anxieties I face now that I’m a mom, but conquering timidity and replacing it with utter bravery is an unexpected and wildly relieving side effect of motherhood. So I’ll end with one of my favorite quotes, even though I find “mama bear” to be a slightly lame cliché. (Side note to any bad guys reading this: Consider this be your first and only warning.)
