Mutha Magazine Articles: Written By Allison Or Alison

Both wrote about their partners without demonizing them. Allison’s husband appears as a bewildered co-captain; Alison’s partner is a shadow in the hallway. Neither man is a villain or a hero. They are simply there , another piece of furniture in the chaotic household.

In the golden age of mommy blogging (circa 2012-2018), two types of narratives dominated the landscape: the saccharine, sponsored post about organic baby food, and the snarky, wine-soaked listicle about surviving a toddler’s tantrum. Then came Mutha Magazine . Founded by the sharp and unflinching Amy Pho, Mutha rejected both archetypes. It was literary, confrontational, and deeply empathetic to the chaos of caregiving. Among its most compelling contributors were two women sharing a nearly identical first name: Allison and Alison .

Why do their names—so similar, so easily confused—matter? Perhaps because Mutha itself was a chorus of overlapping voices. The Al(l)isons represent a specific archetype: the intellectual mother who is too tired to be intellectual, the artist who is too overwhelmed to create, the woman who loves her child and resents her child in the same breath. mutha magazine articles written by allison or alison

This piece remains a touchstone for Mutha readers. Allison describes a single morning: burning a grilled cheese, a toddler refusing shoes, a missed deadline. But she maps the emotional fallout using architectural metaphors. “Anger in a two-bedroom apartment,” she writes, “is not an emotion. It is a load-bearing wall.” The essay dissects how small spaces amplify parental fury. Unlike many parenting writers who apologize for their rage, Allison sits in it. She analyzes the shame of screaming at a four-year-old not as a moral failing, but as a predictable outcome of late capitalism and poor urban planning. The comment section exploded—not with judgment, but with relief.

In just 800 words, Alison dismantles the “breast is best” crusade. She describes the physical sensation of her milk not letting down: “a dry riverbed trying to remember water.” The essay is not about formula vs. breastfeeding; it is about grief for a biological process that refused to cooperate. She writes about pumping in a closet at work, the machine a “mechanical bull that wouldn’t buck.” This article was shared over 50,000 times on Facebook, largely because Alison refused to frame her story as a triumph. She did not “overcome” her low supply. She simply survived it, and that survival, she argues, is the only victory. Both wrote about their partners without demonizing them

If you read Allison, you learn to map your chaos. If you read Alison, you learn to sit inside it.

Here, Allison tackles the performative nature of playground politics. She recounts “auditioning” for a playgroup of wealthy stay-at-home mothers, detailing the code-switching required to be accepted. She notes the way her voice rises an octave, the way she hides the Target logo on her diaper bag. The article is devastating because it never villainizes the other mothers. Instead, Allison concludes that “we are all just women terrified of doing it alone.” This piece cemented her role as the publication’s anthropologist—watching, noting, and reporting back from the weird, ritualistic tribe of modern parenthood. They are simply there , another piece of

Together, they form a diptych: one written in ink, one in breath. Both are essential. Both are muthas. To read their original work, visit the Mutha Magazine archives via the Wayback Machine. Search for “Allison” and “Alison” — and bring a cup of coffee, a box of tissues, and zero judgment.