Guest Post -My kids don’t define me by Lauren Crosby Medlicott


Lauren is a Freelance Writer, specialising in mothering issues. She is an American, but moved to Wales to marry her husband, and now has three little Welsh boys. She would love to hear, so feel free to get in touch!

My kids don’t define me. I have been taught this from two quite different camps over the course of my 31 years.

The first camp. The Christian camp. And in no way am I speaking to everyone’s experience, but only to mine.  Where Jesus is all that defines you. Even though I would have been taught by example that a woman’s role is to serve her husband and children (which I don’t think now), it is ultimately a woman’s role to find her identity in Jesus. You’re worth is not found in what you do or what role you play, but in who you are. If I have nothing, I have Jesus, so I can be joyful and fulfilled. I completely and wholeheartedly agree with this statement, even still. Each of us is valuable and beautiful and beloved because we were created individually. My identity as a woman finds fullness when I find my identify in my creator. I realize this isn’t the opinion held my all. But this is what I have come to believe after years of questioning. And yet, I would add that we are defined not just as creations, but as whichever roles we choose to play.


The second camp. Feminism. Over the past couple of years, I would enthusiastically call myself a feminist. One that knows there are more similarities between men and women, than differences. One that celebrates female power. One that advocates for equal pay, respect, opportunity, and voice. One that realizes how patriarchy has overshadowed our past and present. One that listens to the Guilty Feminist podcast with deep laughter and comradery. And yet, I have chosen to stay home with my children. Not working. In order to raise my children. That decision may not resound with many feminists.

Two different worldviews. That have both told me different reasons not to find my identity in my children. 

And then I had children. Three beautiful boys. Hudson, Isaiah, and Jesse. And they became my identify.

Being a mum defines me.


I am defined by their needs. They need food. They need affection. They need fun. They need routine. They need stability. They need attention. They need money. They need sleep. They need their clothes cleaned. They need me to wipe their bums. They need me to walk them to school. They need me.

I am defined by their happiness. When they are happy, I’m happy. When they laugh at a film, I laugh. When they discover a new fact, it’s as if I have never learned the fact before. When they get excited for pizza, I get excited. When they tell a joke, I smile. Their happiness defines mine.

I am defined by their disappointment. When their friends make fun of them, I take the insult on myself. When they feel they haven’t done a good job with schoolwork, it is as if I have failed myself. When they feel embarrassed by a toileting accident, I wish I could hide away with them. Their disappoint defines me.

Their anger. Their pride. Their shame. Their sadness. Their expectancy. Their fear.

It all defines me.


Tonight, I looked at my youngest, Jesse, as he belly-laughed from my silly faces. And I thought that I would do anything to make him smile. Anything.  

He defines my actions. My mood. My thoughts. My schedule.

And to be perfectly honest, I sometimes feel embarrassed by it. I have put down a career. An appearance. Exciting adventures. All for the sake of three little boys now sleeping in bed. I have very little to show for my 31 years of existence.

And then I remember. I have three strong, sensitive, affectionate, intelligent, happy boys. And I soon forget all that has been sacrificed.

They define me. Being a mum defines me. And I can handle that it isn’t glamorous. That it won’t win an award. Or a salary. Because when I look into their green, brown, and hazel eyes, I know that they are unique human beings that are being formed into men by a mother that adores every cell of their bodies.

They’re worth it.

Being a mother doesn’t define every woman. And that’s okay. Some people are defined by their jobs. Their nephews and nieces. Their religion. Their hobbies. Their travel. Their homes. Their animals. Their causes.

But I’m a mum. And I’m proud to be a wiper of noses. Maker of food. Reader of books. Singer of songs. Proud to take them on walks to the park. To draw pictures. To sing songs about poop.

To hold them at night and assure them of my love of being their mum.

I am proud to defined as a mum.

Lauren Crosby Medlicott

Freelance Writer, Parenting Specialist

Twitter: @laurenmedlicott

Instagram: @laurencrosbymedlicott