This is an ode to the group chat. The much derided, get-out-of-my-life, oh-god-not-another-one, created for every friend group and hen party and weekend trip: I could not live without them. And as a mother, they have gone beyond entertainment or convenience to become something far more vital and precious.
The group chat, for me, has been a kind of lifeline.
Having your first child is not a unique experience – but it is unique to you. Living through Covid was not a unique experience – but having your first child during Covid is something more rare. Becoming a parent is so utterly life-changing, and it also occurred in the most usual times. This shared experience created a deep bond between parents. It felt so strange to need support so deeply in a time when that support becomes a dangerous, banned thing. Pregnancy is so vulnerable – this was a feeling I hadn’t understood or anticipated. Your body is fragile, you are on the precipice of something, it all feels a bit dangerous – you need these supports, the village, this club you join with all these members across the generations.
I have been part of two group chats of new mothers, which started during our pregnancies in Covid times. The first, New Mothership, became a source of constant comfort in my pocket: all these first-time pregnant people in the midst of global upheaval, isolated together, a chorus of shared experience: nerves, anxiety, birth trauma, post-partum depression, breastfeeding, look at my beautiful baby. Some became close friends in person, some are still names, but it all feels like a fabric of support.
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During these times I lived in the middle of nowhere, and could go days without seeing another living soul beyond my partner. All baby groups and classes cancelled and my family was 8,000km away and unreachable beyond the idle planes and empty airports. When I couldn’t even stroll through town with a pram, I had the group chat – and these voices of encouragement and solidarity felt like a remedy and a need met.
When you have a baby, your social media algorithm becomes entirely motherhood-themed, and you can feel it seeding new insecurities in real time. “Don’t listen to all those people saying that C-section means you’re not a real mother!” counselled my Instagram feed, seeking to empower, instead giving me something entirely new to worry over. It can create and feed new insecurities with every idle scroll.
The group chat is an antidote. Jokes, confessions, questions: how do you all split chores with your partner? How many night feeds are you doing? Look at this rash. Do you schedule sex? Will I ever want that again? I am sinking. I am doubled-over with love.
And the format allows for a kind of frank honesty that can be difficult in person. It is so much easier to type out “I am exhausted. I am overwhelmed. I feel like I’m doing it wrong all the time” than it is to admit it face to face with eye contact that steals the words from my mouth. And I’ll never forget the response: With the greatest of benevolence I was gently told: “Just when you want to throw them in a river, they start smiling at you.”
When my son was two, we moved to east Clare, and I was intimidated by how rural it was: a 20-minute drive to a proper grocery store. I found another scaffold and ecosystem in the Virtual Village group chat here, a constant (happily overwhelming) flow of playground plans and event suggestions, clothing swaps and advice, honesty, frankness. The Village chat has spun off playgroups, book clubs, co-working groups, swim groups, babysitting exchanges, free swaps, gardening and craft groups. It is a joyfully relentless community.
These communities straddle the online and real worlds, and enrich both. We mourn the loss of the “village” in modern times, the suburban sprawl, the closed doors, the empty shopfronts in rural towns. But I think the village begins elsewhere these days. When someone has a baby here, or a scary hospital stay, or a bad month, this online village sets up a meal train for people to drop dinners over, a different person showing up each night to minister with Tupperware, and slots are snapped up as quick as Taylor Swift tickets. It is prompted, co-ordinated, driven by this group chat and the heart of community it has built. Meitheals are organised for every need. This kind of tangible community is putting muscle to hope.
There is a cross-pollination aspect to the group chat and the real life community – it‘s easier to add someone to a group than chance a meeting, make the first move, co-ordinate schedules, and make the small talk. Then this online connection spills over into group events and advice. Mothers I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a line-up have counselled me on weaning, on tantrums, on how to keep my heart from breaking in the sweet grief of watching your baby grow up. And mothers who were only online names have become some of my dearest friends. I have met all of my friends here through this chat.
I wrote We Are an Archipelago, a story told in poetry, as a new mom, fresh off a pregnancy so complicated they wrote a medical journal article on it, and in the midst of the pandemic-enforced isolation. The book features the character of Deena, a 22-year-old far into an unexpected pregnancy. Alone and terrified, she moves to a little island and meets a very old man, moved back after 80 years and determined to die in his birthplace. Their friendships sustains them through trial and storm, and creates a scaffolding of support and life which transforms them. They are islands, but together, form an archipelago. They even bring each other meals.
In the story, Deena is coming to terms with her pregnancy – and I came to terms with a lot of my own pregnancy in the writing. One thing I was surprised about was how scary pregnancy is. It‘s not all cradled bumps, a beautiful round silhouette framed in golden light – I was terrified, surprised to be terrified, overwhelmed and so far from home. The group chat was such a balm – I could say these things, hear them echoed, be reassured.
In the story, Deena comes to terms with carrying a child and impending motherhood:
What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more?
When she moves it is half joy and half war.
In the midst of the hurricane, she gives birth with the help of her neighbour and friend.
I held her, this sea-washed marvel, as I sat at the foot of the couch,
all blood and salt marsh and the small cry a tiny piccolo
rising over the bass drone groan of the storm.
She asked for her, soaked and owned
by this small conspiracy of wonder. She was levelled by awe.
I used this piece to work through a lot of my own thoughts about pregnancy – the denial, the worry, the sense of deep vulnerability, and then, finally, the overwhelming joy. In these group chats, all of that spectrum of feeling was welcome, and welcomed. They create a feeling of safety, an antidote to isolation. It makes me wonder whether this should be something we create for new parents as a matter of course, wherever they are. Whether it be through a public health nurse, hospital, or mother and baby group, this is a resource that can be transformational in its kindness.
A group text can be a pain in the ass, a constant barrage, a greenhouse for gossip, the constantly replicating reply all email – but it is also a Greek chorus of support, a consistent comforting buzzing, a drumbeat of voices in your hand, saying “I’ve got you, mama. I hear you. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here”.
We Are An Archipelago by Erin Fornoff, published by Salmon Poetry, will be launched at International Literature Festival Dublin this Saturday, May 17th at 6pm in Merrion Square
