Talia Gutin wears many hats. She is an author, life coach, mother, and yoga and meditation instructor. Guided by a passion for self-discovery and healing, she helps others reconnect with their truest selves and live more authentically. She combines her education from New York University in creative writing and social work with her experience as a certified somatic coach to help individuals navigate their grief and loss of sense of self. Her poems evoke feelings of truth when reflecting on the beauties, trials, and grittiness of life that everyone can relate to and see themselves reflected in.

A friend of mine once disclosed a fear that having children would disrupt her commitment to her art practice, so she chose to postpone parenthood for the foreseeable future. At the time, I was caring for my five-month-old baby boy. Despite being sleep-deprived, emotionally overwhelmed, and often touched out, I tried to express to her that I had never known a more fertile creative landscape than that of early motherhood. It was a time swollen with poetic possibility, aching to be felt and told—moments of exquisite beauty and peace, as well as deep challenge, grief, and loneliness.

Out of those tender, disorienting months of early motherhood, I wrote a book of poetry.

So, how does a new mother write a book of poetry?

Poet Mary Oliver once offered instructions for living a life—and, I would infer, for writing a poem: “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.”

The poem always began with paying attention—an act of noticing, attuning, and living in reverence of life’s mystery. No matter where I was or how tired I felt, I could choose to slow my pace and pay attention—to the visible world around me and to the ambiguous, often unmapped waters of my own interiority.

Where Oliver often names flowers, grass, or the melody of a goldfinch as elements of nature to behold, for a new mother, it was the novelty of my baby sleeping on my chest, swaying with him through the night as the world slipped away, or watching him feel—and then taste—the texture of sand for the first time. These moments brought me to the very center and soul of life—that liminal, innermost space the moon invites us into, night after night. More often than not, ordinary, simple moments led me there.

As I paid attention to the world around me, I also turned inward—to the profound emotional shifts within, as I navigated my new identity as “Mother.”

When I truly paid attention, I could feel my body respond—when the poem was ready to speak.

Write from the lump in the throat.

Robert Frost wrote, “A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness.”

Homesickness is not only a longing for a physical place, but a yearning for familiarity, for what once felt known and secure. It can stir feelings of isolation, grief, and disorientation, especially when there is no clear home to return to. In such moments, there is little choice but to sit with the ache of longing, without reprieve.

In early motherhood, the arrival of something as beautiful and joyful as a child was accompanied by the symbolic death of so much else. The familiar “home”—the former version of myself—was one to which I could never return. I was called to build a new sense of home within.

Yet even in my homesickness, I was simultaneously lovesick. I would give my life for my child, and, at the same time, I had never had a greater reason to live. In those moments—homesick and lovesick—I felt the lump build; the poem was ready to come to life.

Embrace the fragmentation and imperfection— that’s what editing is for.

Writing while caring for an infant was messy, marked by interruption, chaos, and incompleteness. As long as I stayed attuned and noticed the lump, I could jot down a few words in a notebook, and trust the poem would take shape over time. That the fragments themselves would guide me toward creation.

Find pockets of intentional solitude.

Solitude was as vital to my writing as blood is to the heart. It was a kind of home—a quiet space where my mind, body, and soul could gather. In solitude, I breathed life into the poems; shaping  form from fragmented scribbles. I edited and re-edited the moments born from attention.
Though solitude was rare in early motherhood, I sought it wherever I could—during nap time, in a quiet morning before the baby woke. These small windows, though fleeting, mattered deeply. Solitude became essential not just for the poems, but for me—for staying connected to how I felt, where I was, and to process the overwhelm, grief, and vastness of love.

In the end, the book of poetry reflects the journey.

The collection held my ache and astonishment, my solitude and sweetness. Through poetry, I began to heal, to release, to become—again and anew.

I sometimes think back to my friend, who feared motherhood might end her art. One day, I will hand her my book, not as a prescription, but as a testament: that creativity doesn’t have to disappear—it can deepen. That even in the tired, chaotic moments, a poem can find its way in. That becoming a mother does not silence the artist but gives her new songs to sing.

The Mother Self: Poems by Talia Gutin

When a person becomes a mother, everything in their life changes. They see the world through a new lens, and sometimes that view is gorgeous. Other times, that view is overwhelming. This debut poetry collection explores the loss of identity that often accompanies early motherhood while honoring the growth that emerges from that loss. In this collection, joy and grief coexist, making for a complex and realistic read for individuals who have experienced the transformation into motherhood. Poignant yet hopeful, this collection celebrates the strength and vulnerability that define a mother’s love.

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