Motherhood Is Kvlt

I recently had a very random conversation with someone who told me his life was pretty much “sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll.”

I paused—I was already halfway through folding my second load of laundry that day—and said:

“Yeah. That’s pretty much SO NOT my life.”

“Unfortunate,” he said.

And I was like—NO SHIT.

 

Because honestly? I do think about it sometimes.

The backstage fling. The escape. The recklessness.

The version of me who would drink too much and kiss strangers with eyeliner running down her face.

Sometimes I fantasise about vanishing into that chaos like it’s a portal to who I used to be—or more accurately, who I never quite dared to become.

 

But would I actually do it?

 

Apart from the fact that I probably couldn't, even if my life depended on it (let's be real—my back isn't what it used to be, and I’d probably fall asleep before anything scandalous even happened)—No. I wouldn’t.

 

Because none of that matters. Not really.

What matters is what I chose.

This life. The small-town life.

I made that decision twelve years ago, give or take a few existential crises.

My daughter is on the brink of becoming a teenager. My son turned eight today.

 

I chose the early mornings. The slammed doors. The slow-burning, soul-deep love of a life I built with both hands and an industrial-sized coffee habit.

It’s not sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll.

It’s deeper. Quieter.

Louder, in other ways.

 

And honestly?

Being a mother is, without question, the most metal thing I’ve ever done.

Metal is loud.

But my house? Louder.

Screeching arguments over who breathed too loud, someone wailing because they don’t like how their socks feel, and the occasional mystery crash from upstairs that no one will admit to.

 

Metal is rebellion.

My daughter’s entered the eye-roll and sarcasm stage.

She’s got more attitude than a 2003 emo band and she hasn’t even hit full teen years yet.

 

Metal is DIY.

Parenting manuals are lies.

You’re making it up as you go, fuelled by caffeine, panic, and the occasional badly googled symptom at 3am.

And that’s if you’re lucky.

 

Metal is misunderstood.

Ever had a stranger tell you you’re doing it wrong in the supermarket?

Exactly.

Everyone’s got an opinion. No one’s in the pit with you.

 

Metal is shouting

My “mum voice”? That’s my growl.

I can silence a room with a single word.

If I ever fronted a death metal band, we wouldn’t need a mic. Just snacks and mild disappointment.

 

Metal is touring

Please. I’ve done family road trips where a child projectile-vomited a full juice box and fries before we even merged into the left lane—and I still had to keep driving.

No roadies. No rider. Just wet wipes and a haunted stare.

 

Metal is corpse paint

Unnecessary.

I’ve got permanent under-eye circles carved by years of broken sleep, and a black eyeshadow routine honed through desperation.

I look like I’ve survived something.

Because I have.

 

Sex, Drugs & Rock'n'Roll?

 

Sex? Sure.

If no one’s sick, no one’s crying, no one’s suddenly in our bed, and we’re both still awake after 9:30.

It’s like a secret gig—rare, unscheduled, and usually cancelled due to exhaustion.

We’re not going into detail—my mother might read this.

(Hi Mum.)

 

Drugs?

White wine. Ibuprofen. Coffee.

In unholy amounts and increasingly questionable combinations.

Not glamorous. But effective.

I’m not proud, but I’m operational.

 

Rock’n’roll?

Not on stage. But it’s there—always—in my headphones.

The soundtrack to everything—the rage, the hope, the escape.

I write about music. I live inside it.

I disappear into live shows like they’re sacred rituals.

I don’t need a spotlight. Just volume.

 

Metal is about identity.

And motherhood will shred yours.

It’ll rip away your illusions, your priorities, your plans—and leave you raw.

But it also rebuilds you.

Louder. Stronger.

You learn to scream with purpose.

 

Metal is real.

And so is this.

The endless, messy, unfiltered reality of being a mum.

The love. The grind. The sheer willpower it takes to not just survive—but to keep showing up.

It’s anti-mainstream.

It’s judged.

It’s underestimated.

And yet still the most powerful, honest, brutal thing I’ve ever done.

 

You don’t get applause.

You don’t get encores.

You get “Can I have a snack?” on loop until you die.

 

But you also get meaning.

Depth.

And the most loyal, chaotic little fanbase you could ever imagine.

 

This one goes out to all my fellow mums.

Keep slaying it.

And fuck the fantasies.

Let’s just make it happen at home.