When I became a mother, something inside me quietly unraveled.
Not in a tragic way—at least not at first—but slowly, like a favorite sweater worn thin with time. The vibrant, expressive version of me began to fade. The one who once filled pages with words and danced through conversations with light in her eyes now stood silently in the background of her own life.
I didn’t notice it immediately.
At first, I thought I was just adapting—adjusting to a new role, a sacred calling. And I was. But motherhood, in all its beauty and chaos, didn’t just add a new chapter to my life; it rewrote the entire story.
Suddenly, my dreams felt like luxury. My creativity, once loud and relentless, now whispered from some distant room I didn’t have the key to anymore. My mirror didn’t lie—it showed the exhaustion, the quiet ache behind my smile, and the question I never had time to ask: Where did I go?
For months, I walked through life like a beautiful ghost—visible but hollow. I gave and gave and gave, and forgot to pour anything back into myself.
Until one morning, I stood in front of the mirror and said out loud, “I am more than this.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was a reminder. A lifeline to the self I thought I’d lost.
Letting go of the “old me” wasn’t easy. She was bold. She laughed from her belly. She created from the overflow. And honestly, I missed her.
But clinging to her only made me bitter toward the woman I was becoming.
So I began to do something radical: I gave myself permission to change.
Not to return to who I was, but to embrace the me I was growing into—quietly, awkwardly, beautifully.
I learned that losing parts of myself wasn’t failure. It was evolution.
Motherhood didn’t destroy my creativity. It simply gave it a new language.
My silence wasn’t a weakness. It was reflection.
The woman I once was still lives in me—but she’s not my home anymore. She was the foundation. But this version of me, the one who wears stretch marks like armor and smiles through tired eyes, she’s not lost. She’s becoming.
So if you’re reading this and you feel like you’re disappearing beneath the weight of life’s demands—whether it's motherhood, grief, or the quiet discontent of growing up—please hear me:
You are not broken.
You are becoming.
You don’t have to go back to who you were.
Maybe that version of you was beautiful, but she was never meant to carry you this far.
Let her go.
Grieve her.
Honor her.
Then step forward.
You are allowed to be new.
Thank you for reading.
Have you ever outgrown a version of yourself? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.