'I felt like I was the perfect mother. Until I had my third child.'

When my third son was 10 days old, I knew deep in my bones that something was "wrong."

Before he was born, I had done everything right. I wasn't sure what was happening or why, but I could feel it, life was about to change.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

As a mother of two, I wanted to be the best mother I could possibly be. I wanted to be a good mother.

Watch: For more context, the author of this piece, Amanda Jackson, explains why she started her company — and what pushed her to rewrite the rules of motherhood. Post continues below.

We all know the "good" mother. She's self-sacrificing. She knows she has the most important job in the world. She never complains. She enjoys this work, and it comes naturally to her. She is always well-presented, her house is immaculately organised and it runs efficiently. She's financially independent but never at the expense of her children. She is always available, kind and patient with her children. She attends and volunteers, but she is not boastful about her efforts. And she engages in self-care to ensure she can keep nourishing her family.

But the "good mother" doesn't actually exist.

Similar to the iconic figures of the super-wife and super-woman, the good mother is a revered mythical creature.

What I didn't realise at the time was that I had lost myself to this mythical creature. I didn't have a sense of who I was aside from being a mother. So I threw myself further into this role, and sought to perfect it.

By the time my second baby was due to go to school, I was ready to go back to my career, my friendships, my routines. But it was more than that, I was ready to "go back" to being me.

I had lost myself.

From two to three.

But recalibrating my identity would have to wait. Life had other plans; I was pregnant.

My husband was excited. "Two is too perfect" he said, "there's no chaos". I was exhausted, and I can remember saying to him through gritted teeth "well you mustn't be parenting enough!" Life was plenty chaotic, juggling the invisible loads that made family life appear perfectly calm.

In my effort to be a good mother, I was managing the bulk of the invisible loads, and I was always available, always on-call. I was exhausted, a little tired of servitude and I was craving silence. But I was still smiling and I was doing all the things that needed to be done.

But everything changed 10 days after my third son was born.

I knew deep in my bones that something was "wrong."

Losing the "good" mum mask.

I spent the next 11 months trying to "convince" a fleet of medical professionals that there was something happening to my son.

I couldn't see a reason for this screaming, for waking every 15 minutes, and the bruise that kept appearing on his forehead, there was no reason for the clenched hands and curled-up toes.

In the first six months, I had been told "there is nothing wrong with your son, go home and enjoy your baby." I'd also been told "it's really helpful if you get out of the house each day, have you tried going for a walk, babies need lots of stimulation" and "this happens sometimes, mothers with older children, compare the younger ones."

I wish I had known then about motherhood and matrescence. Instead, I just thought I was failing, that I wasn't a good enough mum.

In the process of my son's diagnosis, what I discovered was that to be a good mother to my child — and a good mother in the eyes of society — meant two wildly different things.

To be a good mother to my child, I had to get loud, I had to be demanding. I had to firmly and sometimes not so politely push back "expert" advice. I had to reject the societal expectations I had internalised about what it meant to be a good mum — if I was going to help my child.

Listen: Mamamia Out Loud is the podcast where hosts Holly Wainwright, Mia Freedman and Gemma Bath talk about what women are really thinking. In this episode, they unpack how becoming a mum can shake your sense of self — and why matrescence matters. If Amanda's story hit home, you'll want to hear this. Post continues below.

The diagnosis process almost broke me. I was no longer the always calm, well-dressed mother that volunteered each week. Nor was I the punctual mum with a tidy house that ran efficiently on love and home-cooked meals.

If I was no longer society's good mother, who was I?

Understanding mutuality.

It was at about this point, when the wheels had come off and the super mum cape had been packed away, that I wondered how to make sense of all of this. I didn't know where to begin because I wasn't sure where my son's story ended and my story started.

They were deeply intertwined.

Even though it was my son who has the lived experience of a disability, it has been a critical part of my matrescence.

It was in the muddied confusion of trying to discover who I was, that I first recognised the mutuality that exists between a mother and her child.

Mutuality is quite simply the recognition that what happens to one of us, impacts the other.

It is the equal valuing of a woman's identity and experiences, her child's identity and experiences and their relationship. I honestly believe this simple word can help change the way we support families and understand maternal wellbeing, because who we are is deeply connected to our children and the relationship we have with them.

Mutuality helps answer the question, who am I now that I'm a mother?

The complexity of this question, which all mothers face at some point, was strangely enough resolved by parenting in public. Because one of the hardest things about parenting a child with a disability is parenting in public.

Don't get me wrong — knowing that I couldn't "fix'", kiss better or love this away — was excruciating. Watching your child undergo tests, try to fit into mainstream education and wear one physical aid after another is hard and heartbreaking.

But parenting in public has been all of this and more.

"You're too soft, a good smack never hurt anyone you know."

"What are you feeding him?"

"He's old enough to manage, don't you think?"

"He's manipulating you."

The pressure I felt to present myself as a "good" mother raising a "good" child was real.

What I noticed was that when I felt judged, the way I spoke to, connected with and disciplined my children changed.

It wasn't authentic.

It was motivated by fear of being judged, not connection with my children. I had to make a choice, and I think we all do at some point — be a loving mother for my children — or a good mother in the eyes of society.

I chose my children, and in doing so, I chose a more authentic version of myself.

I hope you have the courage to choose yourself too.

Feature: Motherhood & Matrescence.