The Unbearable Weight of Motherhood: Revisiting Joan Barfoot's 'Gaining Ground'
There’s something deeply unsettling about a mother who walks away. Not just from a marriage, but from her children. It’s an act that defies everything society tells us about womanhood, about love, about sacrifice. Joan Barfoot’s Gaining Ground (originally published as Abra in 1978) dives headfirst into this taboo, and what’s remarkable is how it refuses to judge. Abra, the protagonist, doesn’t leave because of another man, or because of some grand existential crisis. She leaves because she wants to unbecome—to shed the layers of identity, expectation, and obligation that have suffocated her.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how Barfoot frames motherhood not as a choice, but as a creation. Abra didn’t just have children; she created them, and in doing so, she created their need for her. This idea of maternal obligation as something intrinsic, almost divine, is both beautiful and suffocating. Personally, I think this is where the novel’s genius lies—it doesn’t romanticize motherhood, nor does it demonize Abra. Instead, it asks: What happens when the very thing that defines you becomes the thing you need to escape?
The Myth of the Selfless Mother
One thing that immediately stands out is how Barfoot challenges the myth of the selfless mother. In literature and in life, mothers who abandon their children are often portrayed as monsters or victims. But Abra is neither. She’s a woman who recognizes that her sense of self has been eroded by the very roles she’s been expected to play. Her flight isn’t just about freedom; it’s about reclaiming her humanity.
What many people don’t realize is that this narrative isn’t just about one woman’s journey—it’s a critique of how society constructs motherhood as an all-encompassing identity. Abra’s decision to live in isolation, to grow her own food, to cut off her hair without a mirror, is her way of stripping away the labels that have defined her. She’s not running from something; she’s running toward a version of herself that exists outside of societal expectations.
The Weight of Creation
A detail that I find especially interesting is how Barfoot explores the idea of creation—not just in the biological sense, but in the emotional and psychological sense. Abra’s realization that she’s invented the people around her, including her husband and children, is both profound and unsettling. She’s simplified them, molded them into versions that fit her narrative, and then reacted to those versions as if they were real.
If you take a step back and think about it, this raises a deeper question: How much of our relationships are based on the stories we tell ourselves? Abra’s journey isn’t just about escaping motherhood; it’s about escaping the narratives that trap us. Her quest for “blankness”—a state of being unburdened by memory, identity, or language—is both radical and deeply human.
The Legacy of Maternal Flight
What this really suggests is that Gaining Ground was ahead of its time. Published in the late 1970s, it predates novels like Elena Ferrante’s The Lost Daughter and Cathy Sweeney’s Breakdown, both of which explore similar themes of maternal ambivalence. But Barfoot’s novel stands out because it refuses to engage in the morality debate. Abra doesn’t question whether her decision is right or wrong; she simply acts on her desire to become undivided.
From my perspective, this is what makes the novel so enduring. It doesn’t offer easy answers or neat resolutions. Instead, it invites us to sit with the discomfort of a woman who chooses herself over the roles society has assigned her. In a world where motherhood is still often seen as the ultimate fulfillment, Gaining Ground is a quiet rebellion.
The Slow Burn of Unbecoming
The novel’s pacing is deliberate, almost meditative. Barfoot takes her time exploring Abra’s inner world, her dissociation, her gradual unbecoming. There are no clocks in Abra’s cabin, no mirrors, no reminders of the life she left behind. Her days are filled with the physical labor of survival—digging a garden, gathering wood, enduring the Canadian winter. It’s a life stripped to its essence, and it’s in this stripping that Abra finds a strange kind of joy.
What makes this particularly compelling is how Barfoot connects Abra’s journey to the transcendental traditions of writers like Annie Dillard and Thoreau. But while they sought spiritual enlightenment, Abra seeks something far more radical: the erasure of self. She wants to lose her name, her memory, her sense of all words. It’s a quest that feels both impossible and deeply relatable, especially in a world that constantly demands we define ourselves.
The Arrival of Katie
The moment Katie, Abra’s daughter, arrives at the cabin is a turning point in the novel. It’s also where Barfoot’s skill as a writer truly shines. Katie represents everything Abra has left behind—motives, angers, the complexity of human relationships. But she’s also a mirror, forcing Abra to confront the life she’s abandoned.
In my opinion, this is where the novel’s emotional core lies. Abra’s struggle to connect with Katie, to explain her choice, is heartbreaking because it’s so honest. She can’t offer easy explanations or apologies. Instead, she tries to share her discovery of “blankness,” a state of being that Katie, still deeply rooted in the world of motives and emotions, can’t fully understand.
Why This Matters Now
Nearly half a century after its publication, Gaining Ground feels more relevant than ever. In an age where women are still expected to juggle careers, relationships, and motherhood with effortless grace, Abra’s rebellion is a powerful reminder that it’s okay to question the roles we’re given.
What many people don’t realize is that the novel isn’t just about motherhood; it’s about the human desire for authenticity. Abra’s journey is extreme, yes, but it’s also universal. We’ve all felt the weight of expectations, the pressure to conform to societal norms. Abra’s decision to walk away isn’t just an act of self-preservation; it’s an act of resistance.
Final Thoughts
As I reflect on Gaining Ground, I’m struck by how much it challenges us to rethink the stories we tell about women, about motherhood, about identity. It’s a novel that refuses to provide easy answers, and that’s precisely what makes it so powerful. Abra’s journey isn’t neat or tidy, but it’s real—and in its messiness, it feels profoundly human.
Personally, I think this is why the novel deserves its place at the center of feminist literature. It doesn’t just explore the cost of motherhood; it explores the cost of living in a world that demands we sacrifice ourselves for the sake of others. And in doing so, it asks a question that’s as relevant today as it was in 1978: What does it mean to truly be free?
