An indoor skatepark gave me the community I didn’t find in motherhood

Motherhood didn’t provide Susannah McIntyre with the community she expected. By reconnecting with a teenage hobby, surrounded by people encouraging one another to keep going, she found a different kind of belonging

Motherhood, I assumed, would be a time of emotional expansion. No doubt, I would bond effortlessly with other parents, brought together by the profound experience of raising children. I imagined swapping war stories, laughing and crying in equal measure. Instead, my experience of baby groups has been lonely. Conversations centre around the parenting logistics of nap schedules, feeding routines, and the latest gadgets – not the raw, messy heart and soul of parenting.

Even with old friends, the easy flow of conversation has been replaced with something stilted, anxiety-driven, and covertly competitive. Where once we swapped dating and work misfires over wine, we now navigate strained discussions at barbecues, subtly measuring our children’s milestones against each other. As a child, adult gatherings had an element of mystery. The adults were in a world of their own that we aspired to join. Now, our generation has somehow surrendered entirely to a world dominated by children. Kids no longer entertain themselves at parties; they climb all over us, as though sensing that adults have nothing left that is truly their own.

After having three children in under three years, hot on the heels of lockdown, I found myself with no real release or fun and community with other adults. When I saw that an indoor skatepark had opened in Cambridge and they were looking for volunteers, I was intrigued. I had been a keen inline skater as a teenager and had even worked in a skate shop. The prospect of checking people in and ensuring they didn’t kill themselves in a cool space felt almost spa-like in its contrast to my all-consuming life of kids-work-kids.

Indoor skateparks are notoriously difficult to make commercially viable, and it takes a roster of over 30 volunteers to keep ours running. The energy is infectious: a collective drive to create a place where people can skate year-round – a pursuit that has proven to have mental and physical health benefits. It hosts queer, SEN-friendly and girls-only sessions, “pipe and slipper” events for over-30s and under-10 Junior Jams. It’s created a rare and valuable space where people are united through a shared passion for something bigger than themselves.

‘Watching skaters try, fail, and try again is a reminder of something vital. This is the messy, human experience we are missing in modern parenthood’ (Getty)

When I volunteer, the conversations aren’t about sleep training or the merits of different pushchairs. Instead, they revolve around what we can build together. Who can donate an old TV so we can display the weekly schedule? How do we set up a coffee bar? Can we get coaches to run holiday camps for school kids? The possibilities feel endless when people are driven by a shared mission.

And yet, even here, I do not have to erase my motherhood. I bring my children to the Junior Jam events. It’s refreshing to be in a place where my identity isn’t reduced only to “mother,” but where I can also talk about my children freely – about the funny things they say and how I hope they, too, will find a passion and a cause to believe in. And, crucially, about being bone-tired. Here, admitting exhaustion doesn’t invite judgment or suggestions that I am failing as a parent. It simply exists as a reality, one I can acknowledge without fear.

Interestingly, the role I slip into at the skatepark is still a nurturing one. I find joy in helping to elevate the space and the people in it, in seeing their confidence grow. Watching skaters try, fail, and try again is a reminder of something vital. This is the messy, human experience we are missing in modern parenthood. We, as parents, have become immobilised by anxiety, desperate to get everything right, measuring ourselves against milestones and expert opinions. Our babies have become our shields, excuses not to engage fully in the world.

But what if we took a skater’s approach to parenting? What if we embraced failure, shared our setbacks without shame, and kept going even when it felt impossible? What if we supported each other not just in curated, picture-perfect moments but in the raw, unfiltered reality of it all? At the skatepark, the wins and losses are visible for everyone to see. When someone lands a trick, the whole room erupts in applause. When someone falls, they get back up, try again, and are met with encouragement. It’s a system built on resilience, shared struggle, and mutual support. Imagine if we could apply that same philosophy to parenthood. Imagine if, instead of silent suffering and quiet competition, we laid it all bare – our fears, our frustrations, our exhaustion. Imagine if, instead of pretending we have it all together, we cheered each other on, acknowledging that none of us do.

Motherhood didn’t give me the community I expected. But in an indoor skatepark, surrounded by people encouraging one another to keep going, I found a different kind of belonging. One built on honesty, shared experience, and the understanding that life is about keeping on trying. And that is something worth holding on to.