A Stepmother's Journey

Love, Loss & Life Down Under

I think I speak for most women when I say that during our formative years, we assume at some point in our lives we will give birth to our own offspring, or at the very least be presented with the opportunity. I didn’t yearn to parent another woman’s child; in fact the thought never crossed my mind. Stepchildren were, in all honesty, considered a bittersweet consolation prize. Growing up, Disney perpetuated the myth that stepmothers were, at worst, evil interlopers intent on stealing Fathers away from their children, or at best, reluctant martyrs who agree to ‘take on the kids’ in exchange for a husband.

Lady Tremaine, Cinderella’s wicked stepmother

Like other women my age, early adulthood was spent working, socialising, and wasting time on unsuitable men, but by my early 40s, I had grown tired of the dating scene and was seriously looking to adopt a child. Not because I was ever fixated on motherhood, but because I wanted to love and be loved in return. Therefore my reasons were not selfless, but they were well-intentioned. However, after a lot of research, several interviews, and much soul-searching, I reluctantly put practicalities before emotion after acknowledging that I perhaps wasn’t emotionally nor fiscally equipped to deal with solo parenting.

It was months later that I reconnected with an ex-boyfriend. He was the one that got away. A long way away in fact, to the other side of the world, where he had moved in his late 20s. I tried not to take it personally. Resuming our relationship at this point in our lives was very far from ideal, and the obvious cause for concern was his children, closely followed by the small matter of my having to emigrate from London to Australia in order to necessitate our life together, but we loved each other and were committed to making it work.

In retrospect, I underestimated how difficult the process would be…. Born in 1972, and growing up in an Irish Catholic family, I assumed that most households consisted of your typical nuclear set-up, or the extended model, where uncles and aunts would live alongside the family unit. Divorced parents and stepfamilies were considered wildly exotic in our neck of the woods.

In theory, the introduction of a new caregiver should be a welcome addition for both parent and children alike, but in practice you risk stepping into a minefield of wariness and recrimination. I can't speak for step-mums who bring their own children into the mix, but for me the shift in circumstance was profound. I went from living neatly and selfishly, to wondering where my hair straighteners had disappeared to, and silently screaming when stumbling over wet towels left on the floor. It was presumed that I would seamlessly assume the role of a parent overnight, a notion that proved to be overwhelmingly daunting for someone like myself, devoid of any prior experience with kids.

The weight of this expectation bore down heavily, confronting me with a reality vastly different from anything I had encountered before. During the early days in my new role as “step-mum down under” I remember standing dejectedly as my partner’s eldest daughter would return home from school, walk pass me, and proceed to greet her father enthusiastically. Laconic but highly intelligent, I was wary in her presence and often found solace with her younger sister, who was mostly cheery and warm. But when she was withdrawn, I would despair at my inability to connect with them both, and all the while my partner would comfort but gently inform me that teenage girls were incredibly complex beasts, and sometimes only distracted because of something transient occurring in their world, often related to Instagram. My relationship with the youngest in the family was different from the start. He was 8 years of age when we met. We chummed along well, so when he solemnly informed me that I was very close to getting a ‘proper hug’ off him at bedtime, I rejoiced at passing my probation.

The kids showed great resilience in adapting to change, of which I remain truly thankful. I was also very fortunate in that my partner was hugely supportive and had a very strong bond with each of the children, which helped in my understanding of the hierarchy. I inherently knew that I was at the bottom of the pecking order, heck even the dogs came before me.... but that was ok, I knew I had to earn my stripes. I listened and observed, and very soon realised that each child was individual in nature.

The hills are alive with the sound of step-kids

Admittedly, in the early days, I was on my best behaviour, mindful that I would always have to think before speaking, but there were occasions when the pressure got too much. In those moments, I would take the dogs and go for a walk, or decide that it was never too early for a glass of wine… It wasn’t until I snapped under the pressure of spinning too many plates, of wearing too many hats, that we reached an important milestone. Up until then I had resisted from disciplining the children, all too aware that I had not ‘earned’ the right to tell them what to do. But when I did, we all let out a collective sigh. They were fallible and so was I.

However there were many instances when I felt incredibly isolated and desperately missed my mother. Ordinarily, I would turn to her for guidance or to let off steam, but a 10-hour time difference meant I would have to park my need for reassurance and basically get on with it. Lifelong friends were adjusting to life without me, and I was acutely aware that if I walked the length and breadth of Australia, I would never chance upon a familiar face from home. It felt strangely disconcerting. Everything was new, everything was different - the weather, the culture, the size of the spiders…All of which served to compound my feelings of loneliness and grief.

The strangers I met during this time would, more often than not, inquire, 'Do you have kids?' To the uninitiated, this seemingly benign question serves as a litmus test, determining one's membership to the exclusive club of motherhood. Yet for many it's a deeply personal, sometimes unsettling inquiry - one which is difficult to answer. The dilemma is equally tricky for stepmothers. Mindful of the children's biological mum, I continue to navigate the delicate balance by tactfully acknowledging them as my stepchildren. However, I often find this falls short of fully conveying the depth of my affection for them, inadvertently creating a subtle emotional distance between us.

If the kids had not accepted me into their lives, if we hadn’t taken the time to get to know each other, then it would’ve put an enormous strain on my relationship with their father.

In fact I faced an altogether different issue, in that I grew so fond of the children that my maternal instincts came to the fore, and I began to feel a real sense of loss when they weren’t with us. Admittedly, our house was infinitely cleaner and the fridge fuller when they weren’t there, but I discovered that I often missed the little people. They had filled the child-shaped hole in me.

Seven years on and the two girls have left home and are studying nearby at university. I see and speak to them regularly and love that they are strong independent women, making their way into the world. The boy has recently graduated from school. Up until then I was dutifully making his packed lunch every morning and arguing over the bruised apple which would accompany him on his journey to school…and back, each day.

With the last of his three well-adjusted children finally reaching early adulthood, my husband was overjoyed to celebrate their independence and the next chapter in their lives. I should’ve been happy too, but I was bereft. I recognised why he was pleased; he saw them reach maturity after 22 years of parenting, but I had missed the early years, I was playing catch up, and so for me it was over too soon.

I'm aware that many share the same sentiment when their kids leave home; empty nest syndrome is assumed to be a grief felt more commonly by women, but being a stepmother means you are an understudy of sorts. I was essential to the performance, to the family dynamic, but when the curtain closed, leaving me out of a job, I admit to feeling a twinge of regret that I didn’t get to take centre stage, to see my name in lights.

“For this performance, Sharon Joslyn will be playing the character of MUM.”

Women in situations similar to mine often conceal their grief. Being a stepmother carries a unique sense of disenfranchisement compared to other forms of involuntary childlessness. This invisibility stems from the societal expectation that assuming the role can 'fix' or fulfill one's sense of purpose. Yet, this oversimplified solution fails to acknowledge the complexity of emotions. For many, the longing for one's biological child perpetuates a sense of isolation and concealed anguish.

I'm fortunate to have accepted some time ago that my chance to have a baby has passed. The door, once ajar, was ironically closed by Mother Nature herself, which allowed me to draw a definitive line under that chapter of my life. Admittedly, I have struggled on occasion with the knowledge that the children could never resemble me in appearance or character traits, but over the years it’s been a source of comfort witnessing them demonstrate the occasional gesture or saying of mine. I fly the flag for nurture.

I now consider it an honour to witness my step-kids growing up. All three are now in relationships, which is wonderful, and I observe with keen interest as my stepson and daughters discuss career paths and babies. Although I’m overjoyed that they have a myriad of opportunities, more so than in my day, I must admit to there being a dark, envious corner in my heart, aching to have those very same choices over again. But aren’t we all wiser with the benefit of hindsight? And I’ve had my time, those years, the future, quite rightly belongs to them. Instead, I continue to channel my mothering instinct toward our one remaining dog, and sign up for various helpless causes, to the point that the majority of “friends” on my Facebook feed are furry, four-legged and in need of a home.

As a woman of a certain age, occupying a seat onboard the Peri-Menopause Express, I know that my youth is in the rear-view mirror. I buy miracle face creams, but half the time forget to use them, my wardrobe is more dungarees than designer, and I plan to home a few chickens. Caregivers come in all shapes and sizes, and while I took the unconventional, scenic route to motherhood, I straddle both camps. I know it’s not easy to be childless if that is not your intention, but I also believe that fulfilment doesn't necessarily come from having kids of your own. We cannot change the cards we’re dealt, just how we play the game. And although emigration has forced me to manage my relationships differently, I remain a daughter to a much-loved Mother, as well as a wife, a step-mum, a sister, a niece, a cousin, a friend, and a neighbour.

As my stepchildren embark on their own journeys into adulthood, I'm profoundly grateful for the love we've shared and the memories we've woven together across the vast expanse of continents and time. Though my role has evolved and unfolded slowly, I feel content, knowing that I've played a significant and enduring part in shaping their lives.