There are stories about motherhood that live at the surface - about feeding, sleeping, balance, behaviour.
And then there are the stories that live beneath the surface - inside the tissues, inside the lineage, inside the breath.
This is the story of anchoring.
Not as an act of martyrdom.
But as a return. A remembering. A quiet reclamation of self.
The Myth of the Calm, Always-Regulated Mother
There’s a myth we absorb somewhere along the way…
That being “regulated” means being calm, composed, endlessly patient.
That being a “good mother” means being the anchor for everyone else, no matter the storm.
But anchoring isn’t about control.
It’s not about suppressing your rage, your grief, your truth for the sake of harmony.
True anchoring is about being with yourself, especially when things feel messy.
It’s about staying in your body when everything wants to pull you out.
The anchor isn’t the one who never sways.
The anchor is the one who knows how to return.
Anchoring in Real Life
Sometimes it looks like stepping away to feel your feet on the ground.
Sometimes it’s a shaky breath in the middle of a sibling argument.
Sometimes it’s crying in the kitchen, not because you’re weak, but because you let it move through you.
It’s saying “no” when it’s easier to say yes.
It’s saying “I’m sorry” when you lose it because rupture and repair are part of real relationship - again and again and again.
It’s choosing self-connection over self-erasure.
Anchoring is not about always being the calm in the chaos.
It’s about knowing where your edges are, so you don’t go over them without noticing.
Your Nervous System at the Centre
A mother’s nervous system often becomes the unspoken climate of the household.
Not because it should carry everyone’s regulation but because, historically, culturally, somatically - it often does.
This is not another burden.
This is an invitation.
To understand your system not as something to fix, but something to tend.
To move from reaction to response.
To build capacity, not to please others but to feel safer in your own skin.
Because when you are anchored, you don’t need to grip so tightly.
You don’t need to hold the pieces together.
You are the ground they gather on.
And that ground can be soft, cracked, uneven, alive because real ground always is.
Anchoring in the Everyday
You won’t always get it right. You’re not meant to.
Some days you’ll forget every tool.
You’ll yell. You’ll check out. You’ll want to hide.
But the anchor doesn’t live in perfection.
It lives in the return.
The moment you choose presence over performance.
Compassion over shame.
One hand on your chest, one breath that says: I’m still here.
That’s anchoring.
That’s sacred.
You are not required to be everything to everyone.
You are not responsible for keeping everyone calm, happy, fed, entertained, enriched, on time, and thriving while denying your own basic need for rest and tenderness.
You are allowed to slow down.
To take up space.
To make room for yourself within motherhood, not after it.
Because when you are anchored - not perfectly, but intentionally - your presence ripples out.
It softens the edges.
It makes space for repair.
It creates a kind of safety that’s felt, not performed.
Not because you’re “regulating for them.”
But because you’re not abandoning yourself.
And that changes everything.
Being the Anchor
The other morning, I woke up to the sound of my son calling me from the bathroom.
My chest was already tight from a dream I couldn’t quite place, and I hadn’t even made it to the kettle before the day started asking things of me.
By 7:03am, he couldn’t find his current toy, didn’t like the breakfast I’d made, and had melted into frustration over the way his pyjama shorts kept twisting at the waist.
I could feel it building in my body - the heat in my chest, the shortness of breath, the tug between empathy and exhaustion.
And then I snapped. Just one sharp word.
His face changed instantly.
And in that small moment, I felt the heavy ache of misattunement.
But I didn’t spiral.
I didn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.
I stepped away, for just a moment. One hand on my chest, one breath, one soft reminder:
I’m allowed to pause. I’m allowed to be human.
I came back, knelt beside him and said,
“I’m sorry I snapped. That wasn’t about you. I was feeling overwhelmed.”
He nodded, quiet but softened.
It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real.
That’s what anchoring looks like in my house.
Not perfection. Not endless calm.
Just the willingness to return, again and again, to presence and repair.
That morning wasn’t ruined.
In fact, it held something sacred:
The safety that comes when we let ourselves be real and still choose connection.
This is a very different scenerio to the one I grew up in. In that moment I was able to mother him and mother me. That’s healing.
The Motherfield is You
You are not just mothering children.
You are mothering the unseen.
The undercurrents. The emotions. The atmosphere. The lineage.
You are The Motherfield.
The ground. The rhythm. The pulse.
And while the world may never fully recognise the depth of that work, you can.
You can name it. Tend to it. Honour it.
Not by pushing harder. But by rooting deeper.
Because anchoring isn’t a task.
It’s a remembering.
And you already know how.
If you want a space to explore this with support - if you’re craving anchoring not just in theory but in your body - Summer Anchor is open until Monday. We begin Thursday 7th August.
It’s for mothers ready to return to themselves, gently.
No performance. No pressure.
Just presence. Practice. Reconnection.