♪ ♪ SARA DESMOND: And she grew into a curious and interesting person.

But at ten years old, she wasn't sleeping through the night.

What have I done wrong here?

JANA FISHER: So I take him out of the stroller, and I hold him to my chest, and he stops crying, because, duh, I'm his mom.

NELLIE KING: Before I knew it, I started my new role as the house mother at a Massachusetts Institute of Technology sorority.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Maternal Journeys."

The path to and through motherhood is rarely straight.

It can be marked with an arrival or an absence.

And sometimes it begins with the birth of a child.

Other times, it begins with the choice not to have that child.

Tonight's storytellers are sharing their maternal journeys, from the messy to the beautiful and everything in between.

♪ ♪ DESMOND: My name's Sara Desmond.

I live just north of Boston, but I grew up in Central Pennsylvania.

I'm an author and a writer, and I teach both adolescents and adults fiction and other forms of writing.

I understand that you had a collection of short stories published, so can you tell me about that, and tell me about what kinds of characters and questions you find yourself drawn to?

The collection was published in October of 2024.

It's called What We Might Become.

In every story, I think I'm curious about how and in what ways people are reinventing themselves.

I really think that we contain multitudes, and so I've, I've been obsessed and curious about that.

How did you come to the decision to sort of transition into telling a story about your own life, and what has this process been like for you?

This process has been largely therapeutic... (both chuckle) ...I think, as a, as a whole.

One of the luxuries of fiction is that it allows you to explore iterations of yourself, loosely or not-so-loosely veiled, in the lives of your characters, and so, it's, it's a much more difficult process for me to, to tell a story about myself than it is for me to, to write fiction.

♪ ♪ It's 3:00 in the morning, and the lights in my bedroom come on bright as day.

I sit up instinctively in my bed to see my ten-year-old standing above me, her arms raised in a downward V, her mouth a ring of rage.

She's screaming, "If I'm not sleeping, nobody's sleeping!"

(laughter) I look to my husband, who's snoring through the chaos.

I can see that she's in real distress, but this is not a new situation.

This has been going on for six or seven months now, where, every night, between the hours of midnight and 3:00 a.m., she wakes with night terrors, or no night terrors, to demand something of us.

That we sleep in her bed.

That she sleep in ours.

That we tell stories, that we keep the lights on, that we play music.

I have no new ideas.

We've tried everything at this point.

We've tried melatonin, weighted blankets.

We've bought blackout shades, but also, half a dozen night lights.

We've moved the diurnal guinea pig from its place in her bedroom into a closet, so that it doesn't disturb her with its night sounds.

We've made a nest at the foot of our bed out of pillows and blankets and sleeping bags, so in case she wants to creep in in the middle of the night and not disturb anyone... (audience chuckles) ...she can do that.

Except that's not working, either.

And I'm thinking to myself, "She's always been a little bit of a mystery.

What do I do now?"

She'll remind me of the fact that she's a mystery later, in high school.

With a flip of her hair and a wink of her eye, she'll say, "I like to be a little mysterious."

(laughter) But back in that bedroom, I have no new ideas.

I don't know how to solve this problem.

To understand this story, you need to know two things about me as a mother and a person.

The first is that I'm a perfectionist.

And my unique brand of perfectionism is really about control.

Which means, when I was a third-grader learning how to do cursive for the first time, I needed to form and space my letters perfectly across the page, or I'd crumple it up and start again.

Later, as a young mother who insisted on making her daughter's birthday cakes, I would work for hours, perfecting the icing and the decorations to make sure that they looked like they'd been bought from a bakery.

The second thing you need to know about me is that a year and a half into my happy marriage with my husband, we were told I didn't ovulate.

That if and when we decided we wanted to have children, we should return for treatment.

I was relieved my body had bought me more time to decide if motherhood was part of my plan.

I really believed that the time would arise where I would come to a point of certainty that I wanted to be a mother.

And that when that time was right, I would know.

What I didn't yet understand was that my uncertainty had more to do with my complicated relationship with fear and control than anything else.

A year after that, my husband and I discovered that we were 13 weeks pregnant with my daughter.

I hadn't yet chosen motherhood.

I had landed in it.

He was elated.

I was unsure.

And so I spiraled into this place of peripartum panic.

What if I'm no good at motherhood?

What if I can't protect it?

What if it suffers?

What if I should never have brought a baby into this world of capitalism, patriarchy, geopolitical uncertainty, climate change?

(laughter) And still, my baby arrived, all black Elvis hair and my husband's widow's peak.

I loved her with a fierceness I could not have controlled nor anticipated.

And she grew into a curious and interesting person.

She was creative, she loved to read.

But at ten years old, she wasn't sleeping through the night.

And I'm back in that bedroom thinking to myself, "What have I done wrong here?

How did we get here?"

And I realized I couldn't practice motherhood until it was perfect.

I couldn't space the letters of her childhood perfectly across the page.

I had to surrender the idea that if I had somehow chosen motherhood, I might be actually better at doing it.

Now, I'm not entirely certain how my daughter learned to sleep again through the night, just that she did.

And later that year, she came to us and she said, "I want to go to sleepaway camp."

(laughter) She actually demanded it, because she is a child who knows what she wants.

And I thought, "This is a terrible idea.

"You just figured out how to sleep through the night.

"Sleepaway camp's two hours away in New Hampshire.

"You don't know a soul there, you've never been.

"We've not seen the grounds.

"The length of time you can go for is two weeks.

The only form of communication was letter-writing."

But I bit my tongue and I held my breath and I allowed her to lead the way.

And I labeled all her swimsuits.

(audience chuckling) And I packed her footlocker, tucked in with notes of my adoration, and I sent her off, and I waited.

And when her letters arrived home, they were filled with stories of new friendships and hiking and swimming and love and no nightmares.

My instincts about her going to camp had been wrong.

And she loved camp.

She went for several years, many, many years over.

For all of the worrying and the thought I had put into my own mothering, for all of the control I had, that I thought I had, over it, I realized what I really needed to do was recognize that just being there, showing up, being the constant in this great, majestic mystery that is motherhood-- because truly, that's what it is, it's a mystery that persists every day-- and allow my daughters to show me that, even though I'm not sure I'm doing it right, whether I'm any good at it at all, that love, fierce, indomitable love, is the resolution.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ FISHER: I'm Jana Fisher, I'm from Ohio.

I live in Los Angeles now, and I do social media marketing in the music industry.

And how did you find your way into telling stories about your own life?

I moved to Los Angeles with a partner and didn't know anyone else.

And, classic story, we broke up shortly after, and I found myself in a new city where I didn't know anyone and said, "Hey, why don't I try that thing that I've always been interested in trying?"

So, I took a few classes to learn storytelling and kind of get a sense of the format, and I've been in love with it ever since.

So what has the experience of storytelling taught you about your approach to motherhood?

I read all of these books to my son now, and I tell him stories that are kind of meant to help guide him along in his understanding as he grows and develops.

And I think that doing that has given me some more appreciation for the inner child in all of us that still needs stories to help us understand life.

I'm at the bank with my newborn son, Corbin, when I hear the dreaded words, "Your driver's license has expired."

I have been so lost in a haze of feedings and diapers and pediatrician appointments and sleeping in two-hour increments that all of my personal life maintenance has fallen to the bottom of the list of priorities.

And I say to my husband on the drive home, "I'm just going to drive with an expired license for a while."

(audience chuckles) He says, "Babe, you know you can get charged with a misdemeanor for that, right?"

I can't renew my license online because my address has changed.

So I resign myself to going to the DMV in person with my four-month-old baby.

Now, everyone knows the most important part of a driver's license is the photo.

(audience chuckles) Right now, in my current, now-expired license, I look like the person I was pre-baby.

An ambitious young woman who's not afraid to move to new cities and who goes to every concert she can.

When I look in the mirror, however, I see a stereotypical mom.

I wear baggy sweatshirts and I don't wash my hair.

And I am just not prepared to see myself this way every time I look at my driver's license for the next five years.

I promised myself before I had Corbin that I wouldn't let being a mom become my whole identity.

So, the morning of my appointment at the DMV, I get my hair ungreasy, I put on eyeliner and a pleather jacket, and in the mirror, I get a glimpse of the cool girl I used to be.

And then I pack a diaper bag full of wipes, toys, a changing pad, a nursing cover-- all of the baggage you have to lug with you to keep a newborn happy in public.

Corbin wakes up just 30 minutes before our appointment, and I realize I have to choose between feeding him or being on time.

And I decide I will be punctual so I can get this over with as quickly as possible.

(audience chuckles) When we walk into the DMV, I feel like everyone is looking at my baby like he is a ticking time bomb of screams.

And he is, because I didn't feed him.

(audience chuckles) I am now at risk of becoming the kind of person that I used to judge, the inconsiderate, unfit mother with a wailing baby she can't control.

Fortunately, right now, Corbin is in a good mood.

He's looking around like he's in Wonderland.

He doesn't realize this is the seventh circle of Hell.

(laughter) A woman comes up to me and says, "Oh, you're so cute with your baby."

And I think, "Oh, that was a compliment for both of us.

"Maybe with a little effort, I can still look cute and not like a stereotypical 'mom.'"

I'm watching the screen that's calling our numbers, and I'm B148.

They're currently on B144.

How long will I be waiting?

Do I have time to feed Corbin now?

I am a big advocate for the right to breastfeed in public for other mothers, but when I do it, I feel horribly immodest.

So, I picture myself parking myself between two strangers in a plastic chair and whipping out a boob underneath a nursing cover, and I tell myself that would be okay, but it would take at least 20 minutes to feed Corbin, and I don't know how long I'm going to be waiting.

If I pop him off my boob before he's done, he will get angry and he will cry anyway, so I decide again not to feed him.

Now I'm next up in B group, but they call A group, C group, D group, everyone but B. Why didn't I just feed Corbin before I left?

I can feel the worry lines being etched into my face... (laughter) ...as my insides are melting in guilt.

And now I'm at the counter, and Corbin is starting to squirm, so I'm rocking the stroller with my right hand and tapping the touchpad with my left hand.

And then it happens.

Corbin starts bawling.

I am now the inconsiderate, unfit mother with a wailing baby she can't control.

The woman who previously said how cute we were is now looking at me in horror.

The man behind the counter is looking at me like I'm the reason he hates his life.

(laughter) Everyone here resents me, including my son, who is clearly starving to death.

(laughter) I get out his pacifier, I try to put it in his mouth, but he spits it out.

So I try putting my pinky in his mouth and he stops crying to suck on it.

And I think, "Oh, I'm a genius.

I've got this mom thing on lock."

But now I'm in this awkward position where I have to turn over my shoulder to say things like, "Oh, yes, that is my current info," and, "Oh, can you change... "I don't need corrective lenses anymore, 'cause I had Lasik."

(laughter) And then it's time to sign my signature, and I'm right-handed, so I have to take my pinky out of his mouth.

And now he's angry!

He cries so loud, I swear they can hear us in the parking lot.

I run to the next station to get my photo taken and just get out of here.

Corbin's face is red, his mouth is turned down, and my heart is breaking.

He's hungry, and it's all my fault.

So I take him out of the stroller and I hold him to my chest, and he stops crying.

Because, duh, I'm his mom.

I'm his safe person.

Why would I care what anyone here thinks?

I tell him, "It'll just be another minute, I'm sorry."

And then it's my turn to go get my photo taken, and I have to put him back in the stroller, and I tell him, "It's going to be over really soon."

But he starts squirming and screaming before I've even buckled him in.

The camera operator looks like she's seen this before.

(laughter) She says, "You know, you could just hold him."

So I take him back out of the stroller and I hold him, and he stops crying.

So the camera operator says, "Okay, hold him in front of you, a little lower, "below your collarbone.

"A little lower.

Okay, that's perfect.

One, two, three!"

So I try to take a deep breath and project composure on my face for this photo I'm going to be looking at for the next five years.

And I trust that this person knows what she's doing and Corbin is out of view.

(laughter) And then I run out to the car and I climb into the back seat so I can finally feed him.

Someone is waiting for my parking spot.

I don't even care, I wave them away.

I am finally feeling my shoulders relax as I'm holding my baby in my arms and he's looking up at me with this perfect contentment and trust in his eyes.

Three weeks pass, and my driver's license arrives in the mail.

(chuckling) I rip open the envelope and I look at my photo.

(audience chuckles) In this picture, I still look like the bright-eyed young woman I was a year ago.

But if you could just see outside the frame of this photo, you would see that I'm holding my son.

Becoming a mother didn't erase who I was before.

I still have the same interests and fashion choices.

But the life that I had created for myself has a new center of gravity in my relationship with my son.

If you see me out and about without him, know that I'm carrying him in my heart.

And if you see my driver's license, know that I'm smiling in this photo, because this is when my son and I survived the DMV together.

(laughter) Thank you.

(cheering and applause) ♪ ♪ KING: I'm Nellie King.

I live in Boston now.

I've been here about eight years.

I lived in San Diego for 22 years, where I practiced my whole career as a CPA and now I'm an aspiring writer.

So writing is something that you've kind of always enjoyed.

When did it become something you felt like you needed to do?

Right before the pandemic.

I wanted to write a memoir, but I knew that I needed to get a lot more skills in writing because I had spent my whole career as a CPA.

So I took my first class and got going on this memoir that I wanted to write.

Why do you find that this particular story is kind of one that you are drawn back to time and again?

Well, I do it to honor my daughter.

You know, we're in the midst of this horrible opioid epidemic, and I think people need to share their stories about that.

It's the shame and stigma that keeps people from talking about it.

But I'm not ashamed of anything.

I'm really proud of my daughter.

Her addictions do not define her.

From the moment she was born, being Kathleen's mother was always the most important part of my identity.

I loved everything about being her mom.

I helped her Girl Scout troop by being the cookie mom.

I cheered for her at swim meets all over San Diego.

They loved her in the front office of her school.

"Kathleen is like cream," they said.

"She'll rise to the top wherever she goes."

I was immensely proud to be her mother.

In high school, our relationship devolved from close and cooperative to constantly at odds.

What at first seemed like normal teenage rebellion twisted into the seeds of addiction, and then she got in over her head and heroin took over.

The change was gradual, and she was so good at masking it with her successes, I missed it.

She never earned anything other than an A as a biochem major at the University of Chicago until that last quarter before she confessed to her addiction and took a leave of absence.

She was so angry with me for pushing recovery that she cut me out of her life.

I hoped that if I gave her some space, things might improve.

And then, as all of her classmates were about to graduate, she was gone.

When Kathleen died, a part of me died, too.

She's my only child.

Nothing would bring Kathleen back, so I focused on the things that I could change.

I was living alone in the home my realtor would describe as a "quintessential beach cottage."

I sat at her desk and pondered the note I had jotted in my planner, "mom for rent."

I don't know if it was curiosity or desperation that made me Google those words, "mom for rent."

A few websites I definitely did not want to see... (laughter) ...came up, as one search result led to another.

Then I stumbled on an intriguing job description, and I knew it was exactly what I wanted to do.

Before I knew it, I started my new role 3,000 miles away, in Boston, as the house mother at a Massachusetts Institute of Technology sorority.

(laughter) There, I would care for the historic home and make it a safe, comfortable place for the women who lived there.

I wanted to be a mom again, and I happened upon a career that had motherhood baked right in.

The mornings were my favorite, with a flurry of activity as the students grabbed their breakfast, packed up lunches, and dashed off to make it to class.

They were driven and focused on academics, just like Kathleen.

I made the first pots of mediocre food service coffee while I breathed in the combination of fragrances as they came down to the kitchen, fresh from the shower.

Floral scents lingered as they rushed by.

While Kathleen may have scoffed at the quality of our coffee-- she really liked the kind I made from freshly ground beans-- she would have loved the community of supportive women I was immersed in.

My room was on the first floor, and most of the time, I was at my desk with the door open.

My first year in the house, Sefa, who roomed in the neighboring quad, started popping her head in when she got home from campus.

"How was your day?"

she would cheerfully inquire.

I'd give her the highlights, which could range from, "Well, we had a little excitement "when Chef burned some bacon and the fire department showed up."

(laughter) Or "I helped Allie track down her missing package.

It was in the mail room the whole time."

At the end of the semester, Sefa was stuck in the nearly empty house an extra night.

We shared pad Thai takeout.

The original plan was to watch The Crown together in my cozy room.

But we ended up talking most of the night about everything from young men who behaved like boys to losing her father at a young age, to being an only child, like Kathleen, and like me, too.

Talking with Sefa about her life and all of its challenges brought back the times Kathleen and I could talk about anything.

Despite living in a house full of women, I didn't see a lot of drama.

I giggled when a frantic message went out before formal, imploring someone, anyone, to please share some boob tape to avert a wardrobe malfunction.

(laughter) Another time, a favorite resident simply needed a shoulder to cry on after her roommate announced she would not be rooming with her the next year.

Their dramas seemed tame by comparison to the ones I went through with Kathleen, and I'm sure they kept plenty of their crises private.

Senior Ball at M.I.T.

is a end-of-year formal event.

Before leaving, everyone gathers out front for photos under the beloved cherry tree with its enormous pink blossoms.

My memory goes back to that day when Kathleen and I took a break from our battles, and she let me take prom photos of her with her friends.

She was so beautiful.

I never could have imagined that one of those images would end up on the program for her memorial service.

With delight, I watched the girls assemble and board the trolleys to whisk them away to photo ops and the dance at the Park Plaza.

Messy buns, sneakers, and sweatshirts had been replaced by updos, strappy sandals, and full-length gowns.

They looked stunning and sophisticated.

Two days later, it was Mothers' Day, easily the hardest day of the year for me.

A friend messaged me.

She ran into a group of girls, all dressed up, taking pictures in the Boston Public Garden.

She struck up a conversation with them and realized they were from my house.

"They raved about you, Nellie.

"They said they didn't know if you realized "how much they love you.

"Their lives were so much better "after you took over.

Each one of them was singing your praises."

Her message felt like a cosmic gift.

I love them, too.

None of the young ladies in the house could ever replace Kathleen, but as a collective, they restored some of what I lost.

I cherish those everyday mom moments-- listening when they struggled, sharing a meal, staying up late to talk to Sefa, attending a capstone presentation, or cheering for them when their team had a game.

I still see some of Kathleen in each one of them and some of them in Kathleen.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪