I sit here, feeling immense gratitude and delight for my son. His playful spirit and the joy he brings light up my life. Every new discovery, each little milestone—like his triumphant potty moment, where his face lights up with excitement—fills me with awe. His energy reminds me to celebrate life and savour every moment, to see the world through the lens of endless possibility.
Yet, in the next breath, I feel a deep ache—an inner grief buried so far inside I barely want to admit it. We prayed for our son. The journey to bring him into our lives was long and filled with hope. So, why do I feel this shadow of despair? Why does this emptiness sneak in, right alongside the happiness I hold so close? I question myself: You shouldn’t feel this way, Mel. You have everything you wished for and more. But the truth is, I do feel it. And that’s okay. It’s okay to sit with both joy and sorrow—to honour the delight of this journey and still make space for exhaustion, depletion, and even grief.
This duality of motherhood—the joy and the depletion—reminds me of flamingos and the profound transformation they undergo when they become mothers. Here’s what ChatGPT describes so beautifully: “When flamingos become mothers, their behaviour and appearance change in fascinating ways. Flamingo parents are highly devoted to their young, sharing parenting duties equally with their partners. After the female lays a single egg, both parents take turns incubating it, carefully balancing it on top of a mud mound they build together to protect the egg from flooding and keep it warm.
Once the chick hatches, both parents feed it a special “crop milk,” rich in fats and proteins. This crop milk, unique to a few bird species, is produced in the digestive tracts of both male and female flamingos. Interestingly, producing this nutrient-rich milk drains the parents of some of their vibrant pink colouring. During the feeding period, they become paler as they transfer the pigments that make them pink to their chick through the crop milk.
As the chick grows, it stays in a crèche (a sort of flamingo nursery) with other young flamingos while the parents continue to take turns feeding it. Eventually, the chick’s grey feathers will moult, and it will start developing its own pink colouring as it eats more pigmented foods.”
This transformation—the fading of a mother’s bright pink feathers—is a symbol of sacrifice and love. Flamingo mothers give of themselves to nourish their babies, and in the process, they lose a part of their own vibrancy. Just as flamingos transfer their colour to their chicks, human mothers pour their time, energy, and essence into their children. We give parts of ourselves, quietly making room for our child’s growth while we transform in our own ways.
As I laugh and read about these graceful creatures, I think about the flamingo bath toy my son plays with. I’ve named her Flaming Flamingo. To him, she’s a joyful character—a dancer, a tooth cleaner, and more. But to me, she’s become a symbol of strength, courage, and beauty. She’s a reminder that it’s okay to want my own flaming pink feathers back someday. That just as I feel joy and love, I can also feel despair and grief. And, most importantly, those brighter feathers will return in time.
Motherhood is an art of polarity, a delicate dance between fulfilment and loss, between vibrant joy and moments of aching emptiness. The Flamingo Effect reminds me to embrace all of it, to sit with the full spectrum of feelings. To trust that this journey, too, will bring forth a new, bright colour of its own.
