It can be tough being the mom on the outside looking in, the one who feels disconnected from the mainstream mom community.
I’m that mom. It’s not that I lack commonalities with others. We share experiences—I’ve got three kids, aged 9, 7, and 5, who are navigating their own milestones, from throwing tantrums to doing sweet things that make us smile. We both face endless laundry and the never-ending task of cleaning bathrooms. We might even share a love for Starbucks and a common disdain for pollen. Those shared experiences are enough to get through playdates, but they don’t build true friendships.
While I observe other moms forming authentic bonds, laughing together and enjoying outings, I find myself drifting from one group to another. No one is unfriendly; in fact, they’re all quite lovely. I genuinely appreciate them and am always willing to lend a hand or watch their kids if needed. Yet, I can’t seem to find my place; the connections remain superficial.
I simply don’t resonate with “mom culture.” It’s never been my scene—pop culture wasn’t my thing before I had kids, and that hasn’t changed. I’ve never donned LuLaRoe leggings or trendy bags. Instead, you’ll find me in my quirky T-shirt and jeans or dressed up in heels. It’s just not my style.
Then there’s the conversation. When the topic turns to kids, I’m more than happy to engage. But I crave discussions that go beyond parenting. I want to dive into politics, world events, or even just talk about the latest book I’m reading. Once, I ventured to discuss Hamilton, thinking it would be a safe bet. “Too bad you can’t listen to that with the kids in the car,” one mom remarked, and I realized too late that the lyrics were not exactly kid-friendly.
When TV shows come up, I’m often left out, watching obscure Syfy series that no one else seems to know about. I also don’t cook—my husband handles that—and miss out on those Instant Pot chats. I won’t complain about my husband in public either, so there goes another topic.
I’m drawn to quirky subjects that most don’t seem to care about, such as grammar quirks, niche TV shows, or the poetry book I just picked up. Whenever something amusing or bizarre occurs, my first instinct is to share it with my friend Leah, who lives states away. When your closest friends are online, it can amplify feelings of loneliness, leading to more time spent on your phone and less in genuine connection.
As Jason Isbell aptly puts it in “Alabama Pines,” no one seems to care about the things I care about. (You probably haven’t heard of him, and that’s okay.)
While my experience of feeling isolated may differ from yours, I suspect many moms—whether they fit into the traditional “mom culture” or not—share similar feelings of loneliness. Our reasons may vary, but the emotions are universal.
As the lonely mom, I grapple with worries. I fear my children might face loneliness because their peers’ moms may hesitate to invite us over for playdates. I question if there’s something inherently wrong with me. Why is it so easy for others to forge friendships while I struggle? I get along well with everyone, yet I lack a close friend, someone to call when I need help, or someone who truly understands me. That’s the hardest part.
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In summary, being a mom who feels isolated is challenging, yet many of us can relate to that sense of longing for deeper connections. It’s a common struggle that extends beyond our individual experiences.
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