Motherhood and the Self

I didn’t expect motherhood to erase me. Or maybe I did, and I thought I was prepared.

The books don’t tell you what happens when you pour every ounce of yourself into another human being. They celebrate the sacrifice, the sleepless nights, the way your heart now beats outside your chest. And all of that is true. But nobody tells you about the moments you catch your reflection and don’t quite recognize yourself.

For three years, I was “mom” before I was anything else. I loved fiercely, showed up completely, and questioned every decision. But somewhere in that beautiful chaos, I forgot that being a good mother also means being a whole person. That my daughter needs to see me take care of myself. That my dreams matter too.

The turning point came when my daughter asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. The question stopped me cold. Because I had convinced myself that this was it—motherhood was my everything. But watching her eyes, full of possibility and curiosity, I realized that I was modeling limitation, not love.

So I started writing again. Not just essays about motherhood, but essays about beauty, and heartbreak, and my own journey. And something shifted. My daughter started writing stories. We created something together not out of obligation, but out of inspiration.

Motherhood is still my greatest teacher. But now I’m learning that I can be a mother and still be myself. In fact, I have to be. For her sake, and for mine.