The Touchdown That Didn't Matter: A Mother's Journey from Super Fan to Super Mom
I used to bleed green. The Philadelphia Eagles weren't just a football team to me—they were woven into the fabric of my love story, their history a part of my own. When my husband and I first started dating, our Sundays were sacred, dedicated to watching Eagles games at his friend's house. Every touchdown, every field goal, every defensive play mattered. When we moved in together, our home became the gathering spot, the place where fellow fans congregated to share in the collective joy and occasional heartbreak of being an Eagles fan. We’ve even spent our first Christmas together at a game in below freezing temps without a second thought.
The 2017 season was magical. The Eagles made it to the Super Bowl for the first time since 2005, and when they finally brought home the Vince Lombardi trophy, it felt like the entire city of Philadelphia was floating. I was there on Broad Street that night, celebrating until 3 AM, and still made it to work the next morning, running on pure adrenaline and joy. We watched the parade from my then-boyfriend (now husband's) apartment in the city, feeling like we were part of history. When we got married, we even walked out to the Eagles fight song—that's how deep our love for the team ran.
Today, my husband bounded up from the basement to tell me about another Eagles victory, another trip to the Super Bowl. And I felt... nothing. Actually, that's not quite right. I felt annoyed. As he excitedly recapped the game's highlights, I caught myself thinking, "Must be nice to have the luxury of watching an entire football game, let alone care about the outcome." The thought surprised me, even as I recognized the bitterness in it.
When did this happen? When did I stop caring about something that once brought me so much joy? The transition was gradual, like watching the sun set—you don't notice the exact moment darkness falls. Somewhere between having my first child and welcoming my second, my priorities shifted seismically. I used to dress my daughter in tiny Eagles jerseys every game day, coordinating her outfits with the team schedule. This year, I couldn't even bring myself to buy my son any team gear.
This isn't just about football, though. It's about identity and transformation. Is it that I've stopped caring about the Eagles, or is it that I'm too overwhelmed to care about anything beyond the immediate needs of my family? Or perhaps most worryingly, have I lost myself?
Motherhood is beautiful and brutal, profound and prosaic, all at once. When you give birth, two people are born: a baby and a mother. No one tells you that becoming a mother means becoming an entirely new person, with only glimpses of your former self appearing like old photographs in a scrapbook. The transformation is complete and irreversible, yet somehow, you're still you—just a different version, operating with new software on old hardware.
The contradictions of motherhood are enough to give you emotional whiplash. I miss my old self desperately, yet I wouldn't trade my current life for anything. My children are my whole world—I can't imagine life without them. So how can I simultaneously mourn who I used to be? How can I miss a life that, if offered the chance to return to it, I would decline without hesitation?
Everything about motherhood seems to exist in this state of beautiful contradiction. You crave time alone, then miss your children the moment they're gone. You count down the minutes until bedtime, then spend an hour looking at photos of them sleeping. You dream of a day off, then feel guilty for wanting it. You lose interest in things that once defined you, yet somehow feel more defined as a person than ever before.
I wonder if this is just a phase, a temporary stage in the evolution of motherhood. Perhaps one day, I'll find more than just glimpses of my old self. Maybe she's not gone, just transformed, like a caterpillar that doesn't recognize itself in the mirror after becoming a butterfly. The woman who used to scream at the TV during Eagles games isn't dead—she's just busy raising tiny humans, carrying the invisible weight of motherhood, and managing a mental load that would make any NFL linebacker stumble.
For now, I'm learning to navigate this new normal, this space between who I was and who I'm becoming. I'm trying to make peace with the fact that it's okay to miss your old self while loving your new life fiercely. It's okay to let some passions fade while others take their place. It's okay to not care about the Super Bowl as much when you're in the super bowl of parenting every single day.
And maybe, just maybe, when my kids are a little older and the fog of early parenthood lifts, I'll find myself caring about football more passionately again. Or maybe I won't, and that's okay too. Because the person I am now understands that sometimes the most significant victories aren't measured in touchdowns, but in tiny moments of grace as we navigate this beautiful, overwhelming journey of motherhood.
Until then, I'll try to be gentle with myself as I continue to evolve, knowing that this transformation, while challenging, is part of the profound privilege of being a mother. And who knows? Maybe next season, I'll feel differently. But for now, I'm fully occupied with my own team, where every day is game day, and every moment—whether triumphant or trying—is championship worthy.
The truth is, somewhere deep beneath the layers of exhaustion and baby spit-up, that Eagles fan still lives. I do wish them the best in the Super Bowl—how could I not? You don't just switch off decades of passion for midnight green. It's just that now, my cheering happens in whispers during naptime, or in quick glances at the score while making another bottle and changing a diaper. I still want them to bring home that trophy; I'll just have to celebrate quietly while juggling a baby in one arm and a toddler in the other. Because at heart, I'm both a mom and a football fan—it's just that these days, the mom part has to come first. And somehow, that feels exactly right.
