Parenting, Identity, and the Work I Didn’t Expect to Do
Written by an anonymous Interwoven Connections community caregiver
Motherhood has changed me in ways I could see and ways I couldn’t. But becoming an adoptive mother added a layer of complexity I didn’t fully understand until I was living inside it. Suddenly, my identity wasn’t just shifting because I was caring for a child—it was shifting because I was caring for a child whose own identity would always be layered, expansive, and rooted in a story that began before I ever entered it.
Somewhere along the way, in the swirl of appointments, advocacy, emotional labour, and sensory overwhelm, I realized I had misplaced pieces of myself. Not on purpose. Not all at once. Just slowly — like misplacing a set of keys one day and a bit of your voice the next.
What I didn’t see at first was that as I was losing myself in motherhood, my child was working hard to find themselves. And our two identity journeys—one unravelling, one rebuilding—were happening under the same roof.
There is a version of motherhood that invites you to disappear. To minimize your needs. To shrink so someone else can grow. I walked into that version without fully noticing—because, truthfully, people-pleasing was already woven into my patterns long before I became a parent.
But adoption magnified it.
The pressure to be perfect, to be endlessly patient, to be the “safe” one, the “steady” one, the “never-makes-a-mistake” one… it fed every entrenched habit of putting my needs last. And I carried it like a weight I didn’t know I could set down.
Meanwhile, my sensory needs—the ones I’d ignored for years—were suddenly impossible to overlook. Parenting a child with big emotions, sensory differences, and unique regulation needs made me realize I had my own. Not just quirks or preferences, but actual nervous system needs I had been overriding for most of my life.
And the more I ignored them, the more I disappeared into exhaustion, overstimulation, and quiet resentment I didn’t want to name.
At the same time, my child was doing their own identity work—exploring their story, their roots, their losses, their belonging. Their identity reaches beyond me, as it should. And as they asked questions, expressed feelings, and found their language for their lived experience, I found myself confronting emotions I didn’t expect.
Not because of them—but because their exploration rubbed up against my own cracks: my insecurity, my need for reassurance, and the parts of me that had long learned to keep the peace at any cost.
Their identity journey exposed the pieces of mine that had been waiting to be examined.
There were moments when our identity work collided in ways that startled me.
When their grief activated my people-pleasing instincts: “How can I make this easier? How can I fix this? How can I make everyone okay?”
When their sensory dysregulation illuminated how overstimulated I was, too.
When their need for autonomy triggered my fear of not being needed.
Their journey shone a light on my own unfinished business. And I could either ignore it—or finally face it.
My return to myself has not been a sudden awakening. It is a slow, compassionate unlearning.
I began noticing my sensory thresholds and honouring them—not as personal failings, but as essential parts of how I function. I allowed myself breaks, quiet, downtime, and space without guilt.
At the same time, I began unravelling my patterns of people-pleasing — recognizing that my child doesn’t need a mother who erases herself to keep everything calm. They need a mother who can model boundaries, emotional honesty, and self-respect.
With each tiny act of self-return, I have felt more grounded. More human. More capable of holding my child’s story because I was finally holding my own.
The beautiful surprise was how our journeys began to support each other.
As I have learned to regulate myself, I have become better at co-regulating my child.
As I have honoured my sensory needs, I have become more attuned to theirs.
As I have unlearned people-pleasing, I have become safe for their own truth—even the parts that challenge or stretch me.
As I become more myself, I become a better parent.
Identity isn’t fixed for either of us. It shifts, expands, bends, and reveals. We are both learning that belonging is not something you earn—it is something you grow into.
My child is discovering who they are.
I am rediscovering who I am.
And neither journey threatens the other.
If anything, our stories strengthen each other. We are becoming together—two identities evolving under the same roof, two people learning that authenticity, not sacrifice, is the heart of connection.
Identity is not a destination for either of us.
It’s a path we’re walking side by side.
The opinions expressed in blogs posted reflect their author and do not represent any official stance of Interwoven Connections. We respect the diversity of opinions within the adoption, kinship and customary care community and hope that these posts will stimulate meaningful conversations.