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Quarantining in an old, small row house with one bathroom and four people is a feat unto itself. Make two of those people a five-year-old and a one-and-a-half-year-old and add the looming possibility that this pandemic would take one parent away from them and those five days felt like five months.

When the pandemic hit in early 2020, families all over the world were forced into their own private domestic pressure-cookers. Looking back at my clothing from the last year helps me understand how that pressure exerted itself.

What's the point of a new dress if you don't have a lifestyle to go with it? Why should I put on anything remotely decent when most of my time is spent taking care of my two-year-old son who, like most two-year-olds, comes with drool, diaper leakages, and spilled food?

I observed my daughters’ connection to dress while I questioned my own. I marveled at their ability to fashion themselves and at their determination to create a look that they were convinced was right for them. I began to see my daughters’ identities manifested through their choice of dress.

Why do mums dress differently than others? I had an inkling of why when my tiny niece smeared her greasy hands all over my silk shirt as a sign of affection. I always thought that if I became a mother myself, I would just wash my clothes more often. Turns out it isn’t that simple.

Longtime Brooklynite Iris Ying became an unwitting pandemic mom, promptly moving in with her parents in the Chicago suburbs when the virus hit mid-pregnancy. While her maternity quarantine has consisted of nursing, copious amounts of Netflix, and the occasional apple-picking excursion, she photo-chats about the frustrations of nursingwear.

I’d always imagined that, should I embark on the motherhood path, I would be the type of pregnant person draped in flamboyant, patterned robes and empire-waist dresses. I’d decorate this goddess-like figure as though it were a festively wrapped parcel, presenting my breederly gift to the world complete with a satin bow belt.

Growing up I thought that when one became a mommy she would stop caring about her look; I mean, you have your life all figured out, so why on earth would your looks be important anymore? But now, as a mother myself, I see it very differently. I SURE DO CARE ABOUT MY LOOK!

Digging into the boho hashtag on Instagram brings up millions of images from around the world, united by peach-tinted filters and an assortment of any of the following items: wicker, babies, the desert, and macramé. The #boho look traffics in an idealized version of maternity, one that personifies attachment parenting, is connected to nature, and reads as racially white.

Finding the online community of handworkers while at home, mothering my babies, and racking up degrees saved an essential part of myself. My true self, outside my identity as a wife and a mother. Each new skill and achievement I added to my repertoire gifted me with a little nugget of pride to sustain me through the loneliness that early motherhood can sometimes bring.

Since the concept of motherhood is, for me, strictly theoretical, I can only reflect on the first and closest experience of motherhood I have, which comes from being a daughter. The older I get, the clearer it is: my mom made it look effortless, but motherhood is hard.

During the car ride with my mother to the atelier just outside of Colombo, Sri Lanka, to see the first dress that I had designed myself, I visualized how my sketch would have sprung to life since I left it with the seamstress. I savored the new freedom that this dress represented; the freedom to choose the type of fabric, cut, and color myself.