📝 I Miss Who I Was Before I Became His Mom

Some days I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror — and I don’t recognize her.

She looks tired. Not just tired from a long day, but soul-deep tired.
Hair tied up in a way that says “I gave up,” eyes glazed over from overstimulation, skin dull from lack of time, and a body that feels more like a utility than a home.

I love my son.
I’d die for him, no hesitation.
But I still miss her.
The version of me before all of this.

I miss the girl who used to get ready for fun, not just survival.
The one who went out at night without worrying about bedtime routines or morning meltdowns.
I miss the freedom to exist without guilt. To rest without needing to earn it.
To feel like a whole person instead of someone who’s constantly needed.

And maybe that sounds selfish.
But maybe I’m just grieving.
Because no one tells you how much motherhood is a slow erasure of the parts of you that felt most alive.

I didn’t lose her all at once.
She disappeared gradually —
under piles of laundry,
inside quiet sacrifices,
with every “I’m fine” that I didn’t mean.

And now I’m here.
4 years in.
Still in love with my child.
But also quietly aching for myself.

Maybe She’s Not Gone

Maybe she’s waiting for me to come back.
To do one small thing that’s just for her.
To stop apologizing for needing space.
To stop calling it selfish when it’s really survival.

I’m trying. Slowly.
I’m putting on perfume even if no one will notice.
Writing in a journal without judgment.
Letting my son see a mom who still exists beyond the role of caretaker.

Because I want him to know me.
The real me.
Not just the version that’s always cleaning, cooking, calming, giving.
But the one that dreams, laughs too hard, and still wants more for herself.

📓 I Made This Journal for Moms Like Us

Not to fix you.
Not to make you productive.
But to give you space to be honest about how hard this is — and how worthy you still are.