Motherhood is the art of becoming everything for everyone else.

Chauffeur. Homework helper. Snack dispenser. Human calendar. Finder of the shoes that “just disappeared.”

And somewhere in the mix, the me part gets lost.

I used to have hobbies. I used to have a sense of style, a soundtrack, and ambitions that weren’t sandwiched between dance, guard and grocery pickup. Somewhere  between birthing babies and surviving tantrums, I started pulling at the faint straws of who I used to be, trying to hold on before she slipped away completely.

That’s why I’m adding in  a dance class on Monday. Not because I need one more thing on my plate, trust me, the plate is already overflowing. Because  I need to remember what it feels like to move, to laugh, to be me again.

It’s also why I stay up too late writing books. I know it looks desperate (and maybe it is) but in those quiet hours, I find the girl who dreamed. The girl who wanted to create. The girl who didn’t disappear into laundry piles and carpool lines.

And some days, it breaks me.

I stand in the doorway of the washroom, eyes full of tears, espresso growing cold in my hand, realizing how much of myself I’ve traded for laundry and dishes and the endless cycle of “keeping up.” Part of me hopes someone will see the tears slipping down my cheeks. Another part hopes I can wipe them away before anyone notices. It’s a strange kind of ache…wanting to be invisible and seen all at once. Maybe only another mom understands that.

And I think a lot of us do. We reach for the scraps of personality we have left, weaving them into something that feels like our own. Even if it’s just a late-night journal entry, or a hobby, or a plate of food that feels a little too fancy for a Tuesday.

Like chicken in Boursin sauce. It’s not chicken nuggets or drive-thru burgers. It’s creamy, indulgent, and unapologetically made for me as much as for them. And sometimes, that’s what grace looks like, reclaiming one thing that feels like your own in a world that constantly takes.

Final Thought

Maybe motherhood means losing pieces of yourself. But grace whispers that you can gather them back. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But in moments , in the doorway with tears on your face, at midnight with a pen in your hand, or in a skillet with a sauce too good to rush.

Because yes, I’m Mom. But I’m also me. And I’m still worth something.