You're not broken—you're evolving
Confessions From a First-Time Mom
No one tells you that joy and grief can hold hands in motherhood. That you can feel wildly in love with your baby while also feeling like you're drifting from the person you once were. I remember those early postpartum days—every hour stitched together with feedings, burp cloths, and the hum of survival. People asked how the baby was, dropped off meals, and marveled at how "motherhood suits me." But inside, I was carrying a quiet sadness I couldn't name out loud.
It wasn't depression. It wasn't a regret. It was more like… a farewell. I missed me. The me who had long conversations without checking a monitor. The me who moved through the world with both hands free. The me who made plans based on spontaneity, not nap windows. That version of myself hadn't died, but she had vanished into the background—and I wasn't sure if she was ever coming back. This quiet grief—this ache for a life I chose to leave behind—felt like a betrayal. How could I miss something when I had everything?
What It Feels Like to Mourn Yourself
It can feel selfish to admit it. Unmotherly, even. But hear this: missing your old life doesn't mean you don't love your baby. It means you're human. You're a woman with a rich past, layered dreams, and an identity that wasn't erased by motherhood—it just got buried under new responsibilities.
I used to feel like a contradiction. I'd be bouncing my baby to sleep and simultaneously reminiscing about late-night movies, solo Target trips, or even just the ability to shower without a timer ticking in my head. I thought something was wrong with me. Shouldn't I be grateful every second? Shouldn't love for my child cancel out any sadness? But love and grief aren't opposites—they're companions. We grieve because we care. We grieve because we know how beautiful life was before, and we're still learning how to love life after.
This Isn't a Failure—It's a Rite of Passage
Motherhood is supposed to be this radiant transformation—but no one warns you that transformation begins with letting go. That there's a necessary death of the "before" to allow for the birth of the "after." And like any loss, it comes with a period of mourning. The shift in identity is so subtle, so consuming, that you might not even realize how much you're holding inside.
I grieved the spontaneity. The predictability of my emotions. The clarity of knowing who I was and what I wanted. I mourned friendships that drifted, and dreams I had to pause. And yet, what I've come to understand is that mourning your old self doesn't mean she's gone forever. It means you're integrating her into the new you—the mother, yes, but also the woman who still matters.
You're Not Alone (Even When It Feels Like It)
If you're sitting with these feelings—this ache for freedom, time, energy, identity—you are not the only one. I wish more people talked about it. I wish it was part of every baby shower speech: "There will be grief, and that's okay." Instead, we're left to carry this guilt in silence, thinking we're ungrateful, broken, or not cut out for motherhood.
I remember whispering my truth to another mom at a playdate. Our babies were chewing on the same plastic keys, and I quietly said, "Sometimes I miss my old life so much it physically hurts." She didn't blink. "Oh girl, same," she replied. That moment cracked something open for me. I realized that so many of us were silently walking through this same fog—mourning alone, when we could've been healing together.
How to Honor the Grief Without Letting It Define You
Healing isn't about getting "back" to your old self. It's about weaving her into your new one—layer by layer, with intention and tenderness. Here's how I began to do that:
- Write to Her
Put pen to paper and write a letter to the version of you before motherhood. What did she love? What made her feel alive? Acknowledge her. Thank her. Tell her she's still part of you. There's something profoundly healing about naming what was, so you can make peace with what is. - Carve Out "Reconnection" Moments
You may not get hours to yourself, but even five minutes can matter. Light the candle you used to love. Wear the lipstick that made you feel like yourself. Dance to your song during nap time. These micro-moments are powerful—they remind your nervous system that you're still here. - Speak the Truth Aloud
Say it. "I miss who I was." There is freedom in not hiding. Tell your partner, your friend, your journal. Normalize the narrative. Let your words become a bridge from guilt to grace. - Curate a New Identity, Slowly
You're not expected to know exactly who you are now. So don't rush it. Let motherhood be a new color, not a new skin. You can be a mom and an artist. A mom and a dreamer. A mom who's still figuring it all out—and that's okay.
Grief Is a Sign That You Lived Fully
This grief? It's sacred. It means you remember who you were before this chapter—and that your soul is still awake enough to honor her. It's not a flaw to mourn her. It's a love letter. A sign that your past mattered deeply, and that you're taking the time to feel what motherhood has shifted.
What helped me most was realizing I didn't have to pick between my past and present selves. I could hold both. I could evolve without erasing. And I could mother from a place of wholeness, not sacrifice.
To the Mama Who Misses Herself: You're Not Lost—You're Becoming
You are not weak for feeling this way. You are not selfish. You are evolving—and every evolution includes a goodbye.
So let yourself feel it. Cry in the shower. Laugh at old photos. Light a candle for the woman you were. And then, when you're ready, carry her with you—into this new season, where she still belongs.
You are still you. You've just grown bigger—wide enough to hold your past, your baby, and your becoming.
💫 Identity is not lost—it's layered. And every version of you is sacred.