I once believed that the socially conscious among us were a dour lot of people who had grizzled beards and played hackeysack on the outskirts of polite society. They sometimes hiked through nature, often wore organic broomstick skirts, and, according to their t-shirts, were at least marginally aware of some sort of political unrest in Tibet. (Who even knew Tibet had a problem?) I always assumed they judged someone like me—and I probably had it coming, for this was my era of sorority social domination and hot-rolled hair.

As someone who always found herself well within the realm of accepted cultural norms—we are talking pearls and professional highlights here—I’ve been teetering on the brink of a social conscience for awhile. It began, as these things so often do, with organic produce. The next thing I knew I was baking my own bread and buying environmentally-friendly laundry detergent. When I began worrying about the overcrowded living conditions endured by various meat and fowl before it graced the dinner table, my husband politely pointed out the obvious. “Principled” was the word he proudly used, and I tried to deny it, but the facts were as plain and honest as the plate of sustainable greens in front of me: I had a social conscience. I bristled at the thought of wearing hemp.

But what set me on a collision course with petroleum-based detergents and Big Meat in the first place? There’s a distinct satisfaction that comes from eating the same farm-fresh cheese as the intelligentsia, but the origin of my awareness can be traced to more than culinary elitism. It’s directly related to another kind of beginning: pregnancy.

Sustaining new life is a bigger responsibility than a position on the Junior League board, and it only involves half the time commitment. I stared down my nine months with a sense of resolve that would make any volunteer organization proud, filling my Whole Foods cart with containers of fresh berries and pineapple—until the ice cream stage set in. If my unborn child cried out for Cheetos, then an organic approximation of Cheetos we would have. It was about nutrition, not self-denial. I’m a firm believer that pregnant girls should put up their swollen feet and eat chocolate truffles (or whatever else they want) every chance they get.

When I was expecting, a friend and I would curl up over cocktails (or mocktails, in my case), and have long discussions about whether or not having a child is such a life-changing experience that it affects you at the deepest levels of your own personality. I assume my friend was afraid I would become unrecognizable, that I wouldn’t have time for self-indulgent activities like cocktails and antiquing in between soccer schedules, playdates, and the time it must take to attach a family of stick-figure decals to the back window of a minivan. She called it a core shift, and I assured her I wouldn’t have one—unless it was a shift to even greater levels of fabulousness (and modesty).

As a culture, we expect mothers to be universally loving, always prepared to serve others, perpetually ready to disinfect, entertain, soothe, or feed at a moment’s notice. Mothers aren’t supposed to tolerate smart mouths—and certainly aren’t supposed to have them. In the months following the birth of my daughter, I was shocked and a little relieved to find my sense of cattiness still intact. This was for the sake of my own pride, but didn’t my daughter deserve someone kinder, someone more selfless, at least someone less forgetful of pacifiers and sippy cups? I looked in the mirror and saw the same imperfect person as always, only now I was more exhausted.

How could I have known then that a subtler core shift was taking place? Being a mother is a state of constant evolution. As children grow, we change to meet their needs and learn from the benefit of their perspectives. We protect and nurture them, and they reward us with a glimpse of the world through their eyes. It’s a world so fresh and full of wonder that we can’t help but treasure it too. If we take this seriously, it means respecting our bodies enough to nourish them with healthy foods, and taking the time to preserve our resources. It means teaching little ones to treat people and animals with kindness, to value life and living things, no matter how small. For me, becoming a mother led to a new appreciation for real-life birds and bees.

It turns out I was wrong all those years when I thought social awareness and social graces were mutually exclusive. The crux of good manners has always been old-fashioned kindness, and having a social conscience isn’t at all radical if it arises from common sense. Our private revolutions may start small—just like babies do—but even the smallest changes in our practices or perspectives can alter things for the better.

The best part about undergoing a core shift is that, unlike hiking, you can do it while wearing a Lilly Pulitzer sundress. When you see me protesting the World Bank in my grandmother’s pearls, you’ll know the transformation is complete.