Although the definitions, naming, and conceptualizations of the emotional atmosphere formed between the mother and the baby after birth vary, there is hardly any researcher who has failed to emphasize its importance. Spitz, who conducted studies on early mother–child relationships, referred to this emotional state as an “emotional climate.” During this period, the fantasies and imaginations the mother develops about her baby during pregnancy grow richer, more colorful, and more complex within this emotional climate. It is with these enriched emotions that the baby’s emotional developmental journey begins, and their effects continue throughout life. The mother’s emotional state, which so deeply shapes the infant’s psychological development, not only nourishes the infant’s emotional world but, if the mother is struggling with emotional, affective, or cognitive difficulties, the infant is affected to the same degree—indeed, often much more—and cannot escape this impact throughout life.
In psychology and psychoanalysis, which theory has ever failed to speak of the mother? Which analysand, client, or patient has ever refrained from talking about their mother with anger, love, hatred, or longing? Across societies, religions, traditions, and cultures, who has ever denied the importance of the mother’s presence and care? Who has ever claimed that anyone other than the mother—or primary caregiver—plays the central role in the formation, growth, and maturation of the adult self?
Who is the mother? What is motherhood? Is motherhood something one becomes, or is it instinctual? Does every woman possess motherhood? Is being a woman equivalent to being a mother?
Can motherhood be learned? Is there an institution that teaches motherhood? Is there a book or a course that teaches it? Is motherhood knowledge? Accumulated knowledge? Is motherhood nurturing? Protecting? Giving birth? Is motherhood fate? Or desire? Does every woman want to be a mother? Is there such a thing as forced motherhood? Are there mothers who do not or cannot love their children? Does becoming a mother require preparation? Is perfect motherhood possible? If so, what is it? Can a baby change the mother’s perception of motherhood? Is motherhood shaped by the baby’s perception? Is it the invisible mother—or the baby who cannot see her?
Before discussing the psychological dimension of this topic, I will continue by establishing parallels between findings from fMRI studies and psychological perspectives.
In animals whose mothers frequently lick and groom their young, an increase occurs only in female pups in the binding of oxytocin receptors in the MPOA (medial preoptic area) (Francis et al., 2002), along with increased expression of estrogen alpha receptors on these oxytocinergic neurons (Champagne et al., 2003). Thus, MPOA oxytocin neurons play a crucial role not only in maternal bonding but also in the intergenerational transmission of maternal style from mother to daughter.
During pregnancy, estrogen and progesterone activate brain regions responsible for maternal behavior by increasing oxytocin and prolactin receptors, initiating maternal responses. After birth, elevated oxytocin and prolactin levels maintain maternal behavior (de Bono, 2003). As birth approaches, mothers show reduced sensitivity in olfactory centers, and even the infant’s unpleasant odors are perceived as rewarding (Numan & Sheehan, 1997).
When mothers are shown videos or pictures of their own infants, reward-related brain regions become more active compared to when they view images of unfamiliar children (Noriuchi et al., 2007; Eşel, 2007).
A positive correlation exists between high postpartum cortisol levels and heightened sensitivity to the infant’s scent as well as increased maternal behaviors (Fleming et al., 1997). Stressed pregnant mice lick and groom their pups less, resulting in decreased MPOA oxytocin receptors in the offspring and poorer maternal behavior later in life (Champagne & Meaney, 2006). Such offspring also show less sociability and higher stress sensitivity.
fMRI studies show that when infant cries are played, men exhibit little neural change, whereas women display reduced anterior cingulate activity and an alert response—stronger among mothers (Seifritz et al., 2003).
Women outperform men in understanding emotions and processing infant facial cues (Schimer et al., 2004; Eşel, 2005; Preverbio et al., 2006). After birth, men think about the baby an average of 14 hours a week, while women think about the baby 7 hours a day, often with an OCD-like ruminative style (Leckman et al., 1999; Leckman & Herman, 2002).
The infant’s stem cells become neurons in the mother’s brain and cells in her heart tissue, meaning a mother carries her child’s stem cells for many years. This phenomenon does not occur in fathers.
In mice that were frequently licked and groomed, DNA methylation rates in hippocampal cells slowed. Such pups exhibited lower cortisol responses and were calmer. Conversely, pups left face-down produced much higher cortisol levels when startled, had less-developed hippocampi, and reacted with heightened agitation in new environments. A simple maternal behavior was shaping the offspring’s developing brain.
These findings from recent scientific research strongly emphasize how physiologically and biologically central the mother is—and how essential her role is, even more than the father’s, in a child’s development. (This does not mean the father is unimportant.)
Ms. K.
My mother admitted that she beat me when I was two months old. When I asked why, she said, “There was no particular reason.” She continued: “When you were three months old, I left you at home with your cousins. They pulled you around and dislocated your arm.” These were my mother’s confessions. I don’t know why she told me.
I felt rejected by my family, and as I grew older, I realized my feelings were not unfounded. My mother’s beatings, insults, constant belittling, and mockery… I have always felt outside of my family—especially outside of her. My body and soul feel as though my mother is a stepmother, but my father feels like my real parent. I don’t remember my mother kissing me—perhaps she did, but I don’t remember. Stroking my hair, saying kind words… I longed for these, but those efforts were always in vain. And even now, at age 40, I still haven’t lost the hope that my mother might one day love me. If I lose that hope, I will hate her. I still need her. But I don’t know how I would feel if she suddenly met those needs now. Would fulfilling what should have happened then heal my wounds? I don’t know. What sustains me is not my mother—not her motherhood—but the hope that she might someday remember how to be a mother to me.
Ms. S.
How can I love like this? Can such a love come from me? Is this even love? It is something I neither know nor learned nor could ever learn. Love feels like a muffled sound rising from underwater—unintelligible, impossible to decipher. I don’t know how to love; I don’t remember my mother ever loving me. I grew up with my aunt. Yes, I grew up—but on my own. Like a reed rising from a swamp, like a plant struggling up from a marsh. My mother was not a mother. Perhaps she truly wasn’t one. She still doesn’t see me; we don’t speak. She doesn’t see me, and I cannot see her. Even as a child, she did not see me—she was a blind soul, blind in her motherhood. Present, but absent.
Ms. M.
I could never feel my mother’s love or affection. I don’t want to blame her, but I couldn’t feel it. Or was it that she never made me feel it? I’ve wondered about this endlessly. Even so, I don’t want to blame her. Between ages four and five, I existed somewhere between presence and absence. My mother, too, existed between presence and absence—perhaps more absence. During those years, she was like a faint silhouette—and I was faint too. I couldn’t see myself in her face or her body. It was like standing before a fogged mirror. Nothing about her or myself was clear. I had no needs because I was invisible. With an invisible mother, I learned to give up my needs. Just as I couldn’t perceive her existence, I couldn’t perceive my own.
Despite all this, the idea of my mother being far away increases my anxiety. The closer she is, the less anxious I feel. When she is very close—almost fused with me—my anxiety disappears completely. Yet even then, a new anxiety surges up: the fear of losing her. In adulthood, I constantly feel that I must be good, kind, pleasing to everyone—that I must make everyone happy. In my relationships, I assume I will not be loved or seen, and that anyone who enters my life will one day leave. It is the same feeling I had with my mother: she didn’t see me because I wasn’t as she wanted, and therefore our bond was broken.
Ms. A.
Over time, our relationship drifted away from being mother and daughter; sometimes I became your mother, sometimes we were two friends, and sometimes you became a wound that I wanted to escape yet couldn’t. You placed me at the center of your life, yet all I ever wanted was for you to be my mother. To protect me when needed, to listen to me. If you had listened, I would not have needed illnesses and crises for you to notice me. Do you remember? You said your pregnancy was stressful and difficult, and that when I was eight and a half months old you expelled me from your body “like something bloody and poisonous.” You said you never wanted me. Was it my fault that you didn’t want to be a mother? If you did want motherhood, did you truly want a child?
Throughout your marriage, when you were unhappy, you told me you endured that bad marriage “for me.” I can’t forget the times you beat me—but I cannot be angry with you either.
Motherhood has been sanctified across cultures and mythologies because it represents birth, creation, and life itself. “Heaven lies under the feet of mothers,” “There is no love like a mother’s love,” “Your mother cries when you cry,” “Mother tongue”—these expressions emphasize the sacredness and irreplaceable nature of the mother. Such reverence leaves mothers little room for error, for too much has been placed upon their role. But can every woman bear these expectations? What does it mean to be a mother? Is becoming pregnant the same as becoming a mother? Is wanting a child the same as bearing one?
Motherhood is not a plan, a project, or a social obligation fulfilled simply because “the time has come.” What initiates motherhood is desire—the wish to have a baby. And following that wish, the belief that one has the emotional capacity to meet its challenges.
Julia Kristeva defines motherhood not as a function but as a “passion,” shifting it away from mechanics toward emotionality and affect. Yet even with this passion, the baby—though loved—poses a threat to the mother’s life during pregnancy and childbirth. The baby changes the mother physically, psychologically, and physiologically. After birth, the infant becomes a third presence between the parents—a divider at times, a source of joy at others. The baby temporarily restricts the parents’ freedom, consumes time, interrupts sleep, demands relentless attention. These processes may elicit anger or resentment in the mother, who then feels intense guilt. The family’s rhythm becomes the baby’s rhythm. The mother vacillates between wanting closeness and wanting distance, between guilt and resentment, between longing and ambivalence. The stronger her passion for the child, the more she will one day support the child’s independence. Contrary to popular belief, strong passion does not create dependency.
At this point, it is useful to describe several types of mothers:
- Mothers who foster dependency
- Mothers who invade the child’s self and occupy it with their own
- Childlike mothers
- Mothers who are present yet absent
- Mothers who physically abandon or disappear
- Controlling mothers
- “Dead mothers”
- Bad mothers
Motherhood is taught by mothers, shaped by society, and layered by culture. Why categorize mothers this way? What is my purpose?
In clinics and hospitals where I have worked—and now in my own practice—patients and clients frequently compare their mothers’ motherhood, their own motherhood, and their internalized perceptions of motherhood. This is consistently an issue worthy of therapeutic work. The examples I provided above—each a composite of countless clients’ stories—demonstrate that the mother is not merely one of the factors shaping the adult personality, but the most central one. We must remember that both men and women are born from women. Thus, in mythologies, the “mother” is often equated with the divine creator, the source of life. Giving birth, nurturing, sustaining generations—all underscore the mother’s profound significance.
Motherhood is an intricate blend of instinct, drive (desire), social expectation, cultural structure, hormonal influence, and—most centrally—psychicity. Recognizing the psychological dimension of motherhood, beyond its medical and biological aspects, has led to the inclusion of mental health professionals in maternity wards and increased research on the topic. Freud, too, placed the mother at the center of psychoanalytic theory with the Oedipal triad. His successors—Winnicott, Klein, and many others—expanded this field. Early mother–child interactions, the infant’s perception of the mother, and the mother’s fantasies about the infant—all underpin a complex relational space full of love, tenderness, aggression, guilt, conflict, joy, and ambivalence. This unresolved chaos is precisely what clients reenact in therapy; the desperation of their unmet needs drives their complaints, projections, and regressions.
Thus, we must first answer: Is becoming pregnant the same as wanting a child? Is being a woman enough to be a mother? We must make this distinction.
The motivation that sustains human life—Eros, the drive toward life—is desire. Just as reproduction sustains the continuation of the species, a child’s arrival must also be the product of desire. A child conceived without desire is closer to Thanatos—the death drive—caught between existence and non-existence. Wanting a child, and conceiving that child with a desired partner, lays the earliest foundation for the child’s sense of worth. Whatever unfolds afterward, this initial desire is the seed of an integrated, strong sense of self in infancy, childhood, and adulthood.
