I turned 38 last month, and it hit me like a pile of wooden blocks toppling over: I’ve been “Mom” for five years now, but I was only “just me” for 33.
Somewhere between the first positive pregnancy test and this morning’s sticky-fingered breakfast chaos, the person I used to be got buried under mountains of cloth diapers, organic snack pouches, and endless rounds of “The Wheels on the Bus.”
Don’t get me wrong. I love being a mother.
My two little ones are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I wouldn’t trade these years for anything.
But lately, I’ve been excavating bits of myself from beneath the layers of motherhood, and what I’m finding surprises me.
If you’re in the thick of it too, maybe you’ll recognize yourself in some of these discoveries.
Or maybe you’re further along in your journey and can smile knowingly at what I’m only just figuring out.
1) My need for control was actually fear dressed up in a responsible outfit
Before kids, I thought I was just naturally organized.
Color-coded lesson plans from my kindergarten teaching days, meal prep every Sunday, bills paid the moment they arrived.
I called it being responsible, but really? I was terrified of chaos.
Now I live in chaos.
There’s Play-Doh in places Play-Doh should never be.
Yesterday I found a half-eaten apple in my winter boot.
And you know what? The world didn’t end.
My recovering perfectionist self is slowly learning that “good enough” isn’t just acceptable; sometimes it’s actually better than perfect because it leaves room for spontaneity and joy.
When my two-year-old decides the couch cushions need to become a fort right when I’ve just tidied up, the old me would have redirected him.
The emerging me? She grabs a blanket and asks if the fort needs a roof.
2) I’m an introvert who spent decades pretending otherwise
Teaching kindergarten for seven years meant being “on” constantly.
Twenty-five five-year-olds don’t exactly respect your need for quiet reflection time.
I thought I thrived on that energy because I was good at managing it.
But here’s what I’ve discovered: I’m actually deeply introverted.
Those moments when both kids are absorbed in sorting leaves or digging in the garden?
I’m not just grateful for the break.
I’m literally recharging.
The silence feeds something essential in me.
Writing during nap times these past five years has shown me how much I need that solo creative space.
Not want.
Need.
Like plants need water.
3) My body is wiser than my brain
Remember when you could just push through tiredness?
Stay up late, get up early, power through on coffee and determination?
Yeah, that stopped working somewhere around my second pregnancy.
Now my body straight-up mutinies if I ignore its signals.
Headache at 3 PM? That’s dehydration talking.
Snapping at my five-year-old over spilled juice? My blood sugar crashed an hour ago.
That unexplained anxiety spiral last Tuesday? Oh right, I hadn’t been outside in three days.
Learning to listen to these physical cues instead of overriding them has been revolutionary.
Who knew that sometimes the answer to feeling overwhelmed isn’t to push harder but to take everyone outside for a walk?
4) Creative work isn’t a luxury; it’s medicine
When I started writing during my daughter’s naps five years ago, I felt guilty.
Shouldn’t I be doing laundry? Meal prepping? Catching up on the disaster zone that used to be our living room?
But here’s what happened when I gave myself permission to write: I became a better mother.
Not perfect, but better.
More patient.
More present.
Less likely to lose it over small stuff.
That creative outlet isn’t selfish.
It’s necessary maintenance, like oil changes for the soul.
Whether it’s writing, gardening, or even just rearranging furniture, I need to make something that isn’t a snack or a clean diaper.
5) I don’t actually care about most of the things I thought I cared about
Pre-kids me had opinions about everything.
The right way to load a dishwasher.
The importance of matching socks.
How other people parented their children (oh, the irony).
Now? My kids wore Halloween costumes to the grocery store in May.
We ate breakfast for dinner three times last week.
My daughter’s hair hasn’t seen a proper brush in days because she insists she’s a wild pony and wild ponies have messy manes.
Turns out, most of my strongly held opinions were just noise.
What actually matters to me is surprisingly simple: Are my kids kind? Are they curious? Do they feel safe to express their feelings?
Everything else is just details.
6) Friendship looks completely different than I imagined
I used to think friendship meant long coffee dates, spontaneous weekend trips, and deep conversations that lasted hours.
Now friendship looks like text messages sent at weird hours, someone dropping off soup when everyone’s sick, and conversations conducted entirely through voice memos while folding laundry.
The friends who stuck around through the transition to motherhood? They’re gold.
They don’t care that my house is a mess or that I have goldfish crackers in my hair.
They show up anyway, kids in tow, and we let chaos reign while we catch fragments of adult conversation between juice spills and potty breaks.
Quality over quantity has never been more true.
7) I’m becoming someone I actually like
This might be the biggest surprise of all.
For years, I was so focused on who I should be that I never asked who I wanted to be.
Should be thinner, more organized, more patient, more everything.
But motherhood stripped away all the shoulds.
When you’re running on three hours of sleep and your toddler is having a meltdown in Target, there’s no energy left for pretense.
You just show up as yourself, messy and real.
And that person? She’s actually pretty cool.
She makes up silly songs about vegetables.
She builds elaborate backstories for stuffed animals.
She can turn a cardboard box into absolutely anything.
She’s learned to laugh at disasters that would have sent the old me into a tailspin.
Still figuring it out
Some days I feel like I’m meeting myself for the first time.
Other days, I catch glimpses of who I’ve always been, just covered up by years of trying to fit into boxes that were never quite right.
What I know for sure is this: becoming a mother didn’t erase who I was.
It revealed who I am, layer by layer, sometimes gently and sometimes with the force of a toddler’s tantrum.
The person emerging from this transformation is both stranger and more familiar than I expected.
If you’re in the midst of your own identity excavation, be patient with yourself.
The person you’re uncovering has been there all along, waiting.
And chances are, she’s even better than you imagined.
Mine certainly is, sticky fingers, goldfish crackers, and all.
