The Phantom Cord: Why Motherhood Never Really Lets You Go

They say the umbilical cord is cut at birth — but what if it never truly is?
This blog traces the invisible cord that ties mothers to their children long after delivery — a cord woven from love, guilt, expectation, and the quiet erasure of the woman she once was. Between sleepless nights and missed deadlines, between ambition and affection, lies the untold story of every mother who wonders: Did I really get free that day, or did I just get tied in a new way?

She once studied Biology. She knew all about the umbilical cord — that fragile, miraculous lifeline connecting a baby to its mother. It carries oxygen, nutrients, and life itself from one body to another. And then, at the moment of birth, it is clamped and cut — a symbolic act of separation, or perhaps, liberation.

But no one tells you that the cord never really disappears.

After the delivery, though biologically detached, the baby remains utterly dependent — feeding, sleeping, breathing through the rhythm of its mother’s heartbeat. The world congratulates her:
“Don’t grumble — you’re getting six months of maternity leave.”
They call it a privilege.
They call it happiness.
They never call it labour.

When the leave ends, reality begins. She must return to work — a beginner in both motherhood and career. She wishes for another pair of eyes to watch the baby while she chases deadlines and dreams.
“Be patient,” says her husband.
“Relax, everything will fall into place,” says everyone else.
But patience doesn’t replace sleep, and relaxation doesn’t rewrite academic papers.

Her days become a tightrope between duty and desire. At night, she revisits memories of her father — the man who taught her that learning was a tapasya, not a transaction. Knowledge was her devotion. Teaching wasn’t her destiny, but life’s detour. Still, wherever she went, she carried his discipline and ethical flame.

Then one day, a cry pierces her reading.
The baby needs her. The books must wait.
And so begins the quiet erasure.

Time flies — newborn to toddler, infant to schoolgoer. She promises herself she’ll return to her work “soon.” But when she finally looks up, the world has moved on. Her colleagues have climbed, published, presented. Her brilliance, once admired, now belongs to the past. The years of nurturing — invisible labour — have drained her confidence, her creative energy, her sense of self.

No one sees that loss.
The world celebrates the baby’s milestones, not the mother’s sacrifices.
Her pauses go unnoticed in the world’s unrelenting pace.

Years later, the baby is a teenager — opinionated, confident, fierce. The same umbilical bond now manifests in words, worries, and arguments. The voices that once told her to “wait” are silent. The promised “time for yourself” never came.

She finally understands:
Motherhood never ends.
The umbilical cord, once physical, becomes a phantom cord — invisible, yet always tugging.
It lingers like a phantom limb, haunting her with its absent presence, reminding her that the labour of love never stops — it only changes form.