March 9, 2023
Growing up in a bustling community in London, I always held the belief that it takes a village to raise a child. Immersed in my Indian heritage, I was surrounded by family who actively supported new parents.
However, when I embraced motherhood while living in New Zealand, I found myself far from that familiar support network. My husband and I were alone, navigating the early challenges of parenting without the proximity of family. Yet, it was in this unfamiliar territory that I discovered a new kind of village.
In prenatal classes, I met expectant mothers, unaware of the profound bond we would form. These women, and later the new moms at playgroups and coffee mornings, became my new family. We shared tears over sleepless nights, exchanged stories of triumph and struggle, and spent hours walking to soothe our fussy babies. Those connections were a lifeline; they became my confidantes and friends—essentially, my village.
As we watched our little ones turn one, we celebrated the highs and navigated the lows together. This collective journey deepened my understanding of community.
When I welcomed my second child, I returned to London with my husband and our son, just in time for our daughter’s arrival. This time, the traditional village I had grown up with enveloped me. My mother provided invaluable help, holding my newborn when my husband and I were fatigued. My father kept our toddler entertained, while my aunt prepared nutritious meals tailored for breastfeeding mothers. My cousins eagerly shared their parenting tips, from swaddling to weaning.
My eldest child is now four, and though it’s been a while since I sought guidance from my village, I still lean on them for the everyday aspects of life. My parents care for my children three days a week, and my best friend, whose kids are the same age as mine, is always there with a comforting glass of wine during challenging afternoons, and we often swap stories about our little ones.
Recently, something was weighing heavily on my mind. I had been increasingly concerned about my son’s eating habits, which led me to open up on my blog and social media. For the first time in a while, I shared my worries about his diet, detailing my fears and perceived failures. Writing about it helped me confront the anxiety that had been consuming me.
That’s when I bravely typed the phrase “food avoidance disorder.” And just like that, I found my village once again. Although I hadn’t realized I needed it, support flooded in from all corners—old friends, new acquaintances, and even strangers. Some shared their own experiences, while others offered reassurance that everything would eventually be alright. Their kindness and wisdom helped alleviate my worries. My son’s eating habits remain unchanged, but I was reminded of why I trust my instincts as a mother: he will be okay.
While the village can’t force my son to eat, its support has eased my anxiety. I found strength in the collective encouragement, and I realized how much my confidence in motherhood has been fortified by this community, rooted in my own resilience against judgment.
The village encompasses more than just family and friends; it includes every person who has reached out, listened, or simply been present. Its power lies not only in raising a child but also in nurturing and supporting a mother. Indeed, it takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to uplift a mother.
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Summary
The journey of motherhood is profoundly influenced by the community around us. Initially isolated in New Zealand, the author discovers a new village among fellow moms that serves as a support network. Upon returning to London, she finds comfort in the traditional family structure that nurtures her as a parent. Through shared experiences and the collective wisdom of both old and new connections, she realizes that the village is essential not only for raising a child but for empowering a mother as well.