I Forgot I Was Still Me

Somewhere Between the Laundry and the School Pickup Line... I Forgot I Was Still Me

I don't remember the exact day it happened. There wasn't some dramatic moment where I looked in the mirror and thought, I've lost myself. It was much quieter than that.

It happened one practical choice at a time.

One pair of leggings because they were comfortable. One oversized T-shirt because I didn't mind if it ended up with finger paint or spaghetti sauce on it. One messy bun because it was faster than washing my hair. One "I'll buy something nice later."

Before I knew it, "later" had quietly become years.

One day I opened my closet and realized almost everything I owned had been chosen for someone else's version of my life. Could I chase little boys in it? Would I mind if it got stained? Could I throw it in the washing machine without worrying about ruining it? Those weren't bad questions—they were just the only questions I was asking.

Somewhere between packing lunches, folding tiny socks, remembering everyone's appointments, and making sure everyone else had what they needed, I stopped asking myself a different question.

What makes me feel like me?

I don't think it happens all at once. I think motherhood changes us slowly, in the smallest ways. We don't wake up one morning and decide to disappear. We simply become really, really good at showing up for everyone else.

And honestly, I wouldn't change that.

Loving my family has been the greatest privilege of my life.

But somewhere along the way, I confused putting myself last with loving them more.

They're not the same thing.

Maybe that's why buying the dress sometimes feels bigger than buying the dress. Maybe getting your hair done isn't really about your hair. Maybe ordering the fancy coffee or saying yes to a girls' weekend isn't selfish at all.

Maybe it's a quiet reminder that you're still here.

Because underneath the grocery lists, the school pickup line, the never-ending laundry, and the endless mental checklist we carry every day, there is still a woman.

The woman who laughed until her stomach hurt. The woman who had dreams before she had children. The woman who still deserves to feel beautiful, confident, and completely herself—not because she's earned it, but because she always has been.

Motherhood changes us. It should. Loving people enough to put them first is one of the most beautiful things we can do.

But motherhood was never meant to erase us.

In fact, I think one of the greatest gifts we can give our children is letting them see us care for ourselves, too. Not because we need to be perfect, but because we want them to grow up knowing that the people who spend their lives loving others are worthy of love themselves.

So if you've been waiting for permission to buy the dress, wear the lipstick, book the haircut, take the girls' trip, or finally make time for something that fills your own cup, consider this your reminder.

You don't have to earn the right to feel like yourself again.

Because maybe buying the dress was never really about the dress.

Maybe it was about remembering there has always been a woman underneath the title of "Mom."

Pull up a chair, friend. I have a feeling she's been here all along.

XX