Soft Life, Hard Truths

I don’t miss my life before kids in the way people assume.

I don’t miss the freedom in a romanticized sense, or the ability to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I don’t sit around wishing I could erase motherhood or go back in time.

What I miss is quieter than that.

I miss the version of myself who existed without being constantly needed.
The version of me who had interior space.
The one who could think a full thought without interruption and feel her own edges clearly.

That version didn’t disappear all at once. She faded gradually — so slowly I didn’t realize she was gone until I started looking for her.

The Version of Me That Existed Without Urgency

Before kids, my nervous system wasn’t always calm, but it wasn’t constantly braced.

My attention belonged to me. My energy wasn’t automatically allocated before the day even began. I could move through time without the background hum of responsibility that never shuts off.

I wasn’t more interesting or more valuable then — just less fragmented.

I didn’t have to split myself into pieces to meet simultaneous needs. I could be present in one place at one time without guilt.

That kind of presence is easy to take for granted until it’s gone.

How Motherhood Reshaped My Inner World

Motherhood didn’t just add responsibility — it reorganized my internal world.

My thoughts became shorter. My patience became more strategic. My body learned to stay alert even when nothing was technically wrong. My sense of self became entwined with caregiving in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

With twins, that reorganization was immediate and intense. There was no gradual easing into it. The demand was constant from the start.

And because I rose to meet it, I didn’t question what it cost.

I adapted. I functioned. I managed.

But adaptation isn’t neutral. It changes you.

Missing Yourself Without Wanting to Leave

There’s a complicated grief in missing who you were while loving who you’re responsible for now.

It’s not something people talk about openly, because it can sound ungrateful if you don’t explain it carefully. So most of us don’t explain it at all.

We keep it quiet.

But missing yourself doesn’t mean you regret your children.
It means you recognize that something inside you shifted — and not all of it returned.

That grief deserves language.

The Disappearing Acts No One Notices

Losing yourself doesn’t usually happen through big sacrifices. It happens through small, repeated ones that seem reasonable in the moment.

You stop finishing thoughts.
You stop asking what you want.
You stop noticing when you’re uncomfortable.
You stop expecting uninterrupted time.

You adjust your needs downward to keep everything else running smoothly.

Eventually, you don’t know what you need anymore — just what needs to be done.

That’s the version of myself I miss. The one who could feel her own presence clearly.

Why Nostalgia Isn’t the Point

This isn’t about wishing things were different.

It’s about understanding what was lost so it doesn’t stay buried.

Nostalgia freezes you in the past.
Awareness gives you a path forward.

I don’t want to become who I was before kids. That version of me didn’t know what I know now. She hadn’t been stretched, fractured, or reshaped by responsibility.

But I do want to reclaim parts of her — the parts that had room to exist beyond obligation.

Reclaiming Without Replacing Motherhood

Reclaiming yourself doesn’t mean rejecting motherhood.

It means refusing to let motherhood consume every part of your identity.

I’m learning that I don’t have to disappear to be a good mother. That my children don’t benefit from my self-erasure — they benefit from my presence, which requires wholeness.

Rebuilding selfhood doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in small, intentional ways:

• Letting yourself want things again
• Making room for uninterrupted thought
• Creating systems that protect your energy
• Honoring your limits instead of overriding them

This is not a dramatic transformation. It’s a quiet reintroduction.

Why I’m Letting This Be Ongoing

I don’t have a neat ending for this.

I’m still getting to know who I am now — not who I was before, and not only who motherhood requires me to be.

There’s grief here, but there’s also possibility.

Missing who you were can be a sign that something inside you wants to live again — not in opposition to your life now, but alongside it.

I’m learning to listen to that.

If You Feel This Too

If you’ve ever felt a quiet ache for yourself — not your old life, but your inner presence — you’re not alone.

You’re not broken.
You’re not selfish.
You’re not ungrateful.

You’re aware.

And awareness is where rebuilding begins.