What we can learn from refugee moms
You can almost always see the trauma in their eyes first. And I don’t know if this is something you’d notice if you weren’t a trained trauma clinician—nor do I know how exactly to explain what it is you see. But there is a weight, a window of sorts, into some other unfathomable land. And I have seen it repeatedly, across cultures, ages and types of severe trauma. It seems it’s universal. And it can’t be hidden with a smile.
Its haunting, as a trauma therapist, to know how horrible the depths of these windows are. How unspeakably deep they go, and the places they might lead. They exist sometimes before words could label them (in the case of early-childhood trauma), and in a way that can make words insufficient to even comprehend. Some of these depths are also concealed from the survivor themselves, at least consciously. Instead, they creep throughout the body, giving themselves away in their eyes, sometimes in habits or reflexes. And so they live in a veiled way, these somatic ghosts, pulling at their heels or lodged in their throats.
This type of trauma-- capital T trauma-- is complex, recurrent, and no small feat to attempt to combat. Typically, it presents somatically; such is to say, it becomes physical. And this is the baseline experience of all of the refugees I work with. The starting ground is fear, loss, displacement—it is the body bracing for life or death.
While I work with other clients, I specialize in mothers, both western and cross-culturally. They have a special place in my heart. Motherhood changes a woman, yes. It makes a person anew. It is its own full experience with joy and grief. The experience of being displaced, in the cases of the refugee mothers I work with, also changes a person. As does surviving war trauma. Mothers who are refugees are carrying so much, not only because they have experienced trauma, but also because they have experienced trauma as a mother. Trauma as a mother is a different, complex animal. It is felt twice-over; first, in ones’ experience of lack of safety, and then from the connective fear of a mother feeling her child’s fear and pain. Just as any mother can attest, seeing your child struggle, let alone face the risk of death is grueling. She will carry the traumatic experiences of her children so deeply in her body, as well as the fear of what that might mean for their futures, for their wellness. And she will carry this every single day, all hours; it will morph into various webs of anxiety, depression and hopelessness. And then, she will carry her own trauma, her own somatic pain, working to stifle it, to care only for her children and ignore her own needs. In fact, she may not even recognize that she has needs. This is the great disappearing act of the mother: selfless, to her own detriment, long infused by cultural norms.
Mothering (not to be confused with the institution of motherhood), specifically biologically, requires so much of the body—long after our children are born. In pregnancy and postpartum, different parts of the brain (the Temporoparietal junction, Medial prefrontal cortex and Precuneus) adapt to include an increase in feelings related to ‘theory of mind’. These physical and hormonal changes are part of what helps mothers to be so attuned to their infants’ feelings, emotions and needs. It’s also part of what increases intensive feelings of what we know as ‘mom guilt’, and sometimes obsessive thoughts. The brain changes to increase awareness and capacity for social cognitions and generally understanding others’ needs and perspectives. In other words, ones’ attentiveness and anxiety increases toward their children. Of course, these brain changes help a new mother to connect with and care for an infant. But in times of trauma, these can become overactive and train our brains to increase anxiety, even when unnecessary. This can lead to mental health disorders such as anxiety, depression or post-traumatic stress disorder. All of these can significantly impact mom’s ability to function. Studies show how we store the cells of our children in our bodies after birth, but we store so much more of their experiences as they grow. These become somatic, by way of mental and emotional impacts of mothering.
The stress of motherhood, and trauma experienced as a mother, can also impact attachments with children and emotional regulation capabilities. Parenting after trauma can bring up a number of triggers, and parenting complicated by trauma or post traumatic stress can be particularly challenging. All of this can impact bonding, development and mental health of children. In fact, the wellness of mothers is one of the greatest indicators of the mental health of children. This fear is an additional guilt for mothers. It is one that says, how is everything I have been through going to continue to hurt my children? It is a guilt that holds the feeling of blame. Guilt, blame and shame, on top of it all.
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The refugee mothers I work with have seldom given consideration to themselves, their wants or needs. The idea of this is foreign to them, and they blush and laugh when I talk about how we must take care of ourselves as mothers. In one therapy group I lead, we have worked to understand this as necessary, normal and healthy. And still, they divert their eyes and their cheeks grow pink when we discuss taking a bath, just for you, or celebrating yourself—even just noticing how hard you work. Through the years of this group, these women have grown more empowered in this. They have recognized their own strength, and it is beautiful to see. Just coming to this group is a new and radial act of them taking time for just themselves, to care for themselves, to heal and connect. Coming week after week is huge. It is a new allowance for them, which many of them had to work to feel was acceptable or important. Some of these mothers can now stand tall, be proud to pose for a picture, to believe there is value in a photograph of only them. They can be seen for who they are.
These women often come from a collectivistic cultures, and many of them also dealt with deep systems of oppression and abuse. But there is a key difference in their experience of motherhood: they had one another. This is a profound and striking contrast as they adjust to life in the west. These mothers are used to a life in which they showed up for each other, cooked and cleaned with one another, took turns in caregiving and domestic work. Their days were together. And while it’s hard to comprehend the ways in which they had little freedom and rights (most were unable to attend schooling and have never learned to read or write—all of this being an entirely different essay), there is something beautiful in the way that perhaps some of this oppression forced, or taught them to band fiercely together. Their togetherness, as a lifestyle, is remarkable. They are not separated, like we see more in the west; they are not pitted against one another in competition and fear. They are celebratory, protective of one another, and naturally aid and co-mother as needed. They take care of one another in the most loving and maternal way (hell, they take care of me too, and I’m the therapist!) They offer the ultimate showing of what it is to be held as a mother. In this, they embody the missing village western mothers dream of.
These amazing mothers, who have been through the unthinkable, come to the United States and they all tell me one thing: being a mother here is so much harder than being a mother in my country (these have included Afghanistan, Syria, and countries in Africa). How could this be? To flee war and torture, oppression, to live in refugee camps and without stable basic needs—to come to what is supposed to be a country of welcoming, stability and equality? But they are alone now. They are now parenting the way we do in the west: isolated, unsupported, and with strenuous expectations. They tell me that in their home countries, the women parented together, with the help of the grandmothers and aunts and neighboring women. Other women cared for them and their infants in the postpartum period or through loss. That they were always together, talking and supporting one another. That there was no loneliness. That being a mother wasn’t so hard before. That the children all played together and ran free through the day. They tell me things I already know—like that here (the U.S), moms spend so much time entertaining their children. Why is that? They ask. That they are alone all day in their home with their children, who feel cooped up and bored and have lost the ability to entertain themselves. Why are women not out in community? They ask. Now, they’ll say, they have all of the responsibilities, but they have them alone and in silence. There is no togetherness, no co-mothering. How do you do this alone? They ask. Their children are lonely. They are lonely. And their expectations of what freedoms might await them in the west are often crushed. I have no great answers for them, other than to feel their pain, and to tell them I know. Yes, it’s lonely. Yes, we are overwhelmed. I am so sorry you are trying to mother like this. It is so hard.
The sad reality is that refugee mothers struggle when they come to the US, beyond the reasons of the horrific traumas they have already experienced. And part of this is because of the ways the west has failed mothers. It is the way in which the western world has focused on individualism and separation to the detriment of mothering needs. It is the way mothering has not been prioritized in the US-- socially or politically-- but at the same time romanticized as the hardest and most important job in the world. It is the way mothers are called ‘superheros’ as a way to fluff the overwhelm, exhaustion and struggle of mothers instead of providing them help and support. It falls into society’s messaging that mothers should be able to do it all on their own, as opposed to noting that they actually cannot—that they actually need their burdens eased and recognized. The Superhero-mom narrative is a great distraction, a seeming compliment. It bow-wraps the impossible expectations, dismissing that there is an issue. These refugee mothers have no desire to be superheroes, they have not been duped into this.
We already know that moms in the west and struggling, lonely, and that their mental health has been in continued decline. Studies show us parents in the US now are generally lonely and depressed, and it’s reached an epidemic level. Thus, it’s particularly interesting to consider the fact that mothers who have fled war and their home countries are now battling a new trauma of what it means to be a mother in the west. And what it means is loneliness, exhaustion, impossible standards; it means mothering without the village. It means mothering, with a few steps backwards.
The mothers I see are shocked by this. They are shocked by the ways in which women at home with their children spend their days alone, expected to cook, clean, parent all on their own. It is parenting as they have never known it, and a quiet jolt to their nervous systems. Never before have they felt so overworked, they tell me. Never before has parenting felt so impossible. And here, of all places, they say. These sweet women show me the utmost empathy, astonished that I have mothered for years this way. They worry for my children, bake me bread and kiss my cheeks, and invite me for lunches. They seem to want to scoop me up, to show me their ways by their very nature, though most of them are much younger than I and with far more children.
And so, the mothers continue to come to the mother’s groups, and I hear of how much they look forward to it, how much joy it brings—this simple group. This is when they can see each other. Many don’t live near each other, cannot drive, and rely on the group to even get out of the house or see friends (for which we have amazing volunteer drivers and childcare workers so that they may attend this). They have little say as refugees in where they are placed or can afford to live, and very little supports. Their husbands find work out of the home and more quickly learn English, while they are trapped in the home. Often, it takes mothers much longer to have the opportunity to learn English, or be able to drive (if these things happen at all). They watch their children pick up English in the schools, and come to rely on them to translate and help them navigate a world they remain separated from.
The moms group is a radical act for these women. Of which, the first step is believing you deserve such a thing, or that it is okay to have. And this is a steep thing for them to believe. It is one women in the west still grapple with. That taking time out of the day of responsibilities is okay. Slowly, these moms learn to see themselves as individuals deserving of care. They develop close bonds and intimacy, and learn the safety of sharing hard or previously shame- held experiences. They learn about their mental health, they open up, and they laugh together. They have asked for little to nothing, really. Never for themselves, never needing. Besides keeping their children safe, the goal of almost every one of these women is to be able to be a part of the world again. To learn English, to be able to leave the home, to have people. And it is ironic, given the ways western women also feel isolated and removed as mothers. We say, oh, us too. Can the world please accommodate me, can we possibly be seen? How can we exist here too? It is surprising to think that, perhaps we are actually seeking the same thing—to be able to be a part of the world and still be mothers—but from very different avenues. Worlds apart in our experiences, save for the weight of what it means to be a mother.
Jillayna Adamson (pronounced Jill-anna) is a Psychotherapist (LPC, LMHC), writer and mama with a background in psychology and anthropology. She specializes in maternal mental health, cross-cultural mental health, adolescent mental health, trauma and the LGBTQ community. Jillayna additionally writes and advocates for various mental health and human rights causes and works with refugees and queer individuals in the nonprofit sector. She is particularly interested in mental wellness and identity development within the psychosocial implications of the modern western world. Jillayna is a Canadian transplant currently living in St. Louis with her partner and their two kids and is a firm believer in letting your freak flag fly. Jillayna is published in Demeter Press, HuffPost, Motherly, Motherwell, The Rumpus and more. Find out more at www.Jillayna.com or @BrightTribeTherapy
