My Journey Back to Me
I never imagined that motherhood would come with such a fierce mix of joy and suffering.
It was supposed to be this beautiful journey, right? But every day, it feels like a constant battle within me. I'm madly in love with my kids, I adore taking care of them, but in the midst of all of it, a part of me is quietly fading away—the person I used to be, the woman I once recognized in the mirror, is slipping through my fingers.
When I had my second child, everything changed. It wasn't just exhaustion. It was deeper, darker. I felt like I was drowning, suffocating in a life I didn't recognize.
My mind was a constant swirl of everything that needed to be done: meals, laundry, dishes, hungry kids, milk that had to be pumped... it felt endless, like I was on a treadmill that never slowed down.
And then, there was me. Or, at least, the version of me that I used to be. I had no time for myself. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. I was tired. I was drained. I was covered in sweat, wearing clothes that no longer fit, hair falling out in clumps, and skin pale from lack of care. My uniform became my husband's old t-shirt and leggings. I gave up on trying to look good - after all, who had the time?
I stopped seeing my friends. I couldn't bear the thought of them seeing me like this, not when I felt so unattractive, so... invisible. The worst part? I couldn't even remember the last time I had the time or energy to take a simple shower. I would sit in front of the TV for hours, letting the world pass me by. I wasn't living. I was just existing, on autopilot.
The question I dreaded the most was always the same:
“How are you?”
How could I answer that? “Tired” was all I could think.
But no. I had to smile and say, “I'm great,” because that was what was expected of me. Even though I felt like I was suffocating beneath the weight of it all.
I felt like I was shrinking every time we went out, every time I met new people. When they asked,
“What do you do?”
my heart would sink.“I'm just a stay-at-home mom,” I'd mutter, as if the words themselves were a confession of failure. And then, as quickly as I could, I'd turn the conversation to my husband, his accomplishments, his success. Because somehow, his achievements made me feel like I mattered. I felt like I had nothing to offer anymore.
My brain was in a fog, and I could barely hold a conversation without forgetting what I was talking about halfway through. My mind was as scattered as the toys strewn across the floor, as chaotic as the life I was living.
And then, the anger came.
It crept in slowly at first—irritability with the kids, frustration with my husband, resentment that I couldn't seem to keep up. My kids seemed to need me more than ever, but I had nothing left to give. They cried. They clung. They became so difficult, so demanding. I worried that I was failing them—that somehow, their development was being delayed by the cracks in my own soul.
And then my husband—the man I thought would never judge me—looked at me one day and said, “I don't like this version of you.” His words hit like a slap to the face. The person I had become, the one I hated too, had driven a wedge between us. And my mom, well, she kept giving me advice, treating me like a child, as if I hadn't already been through it all. It was too much. I couldn't carry it. I couldn't be everything to everyone.
“I don't like this version of you.”
I had an anxiety attack that day. It was like the floodgates opened, and every emotion I had been holding in came rushing out. The exhaustion, the guilt, the shame—it all crashed over me like a tidal wave. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.
That was the moment I realized something had to change. And in that moment, I made a vow to myself: I would stop trying to be the “perfect” mom, because that version of me didn't exist. Perfection was a lie.
I started focusing on my healing. I dove into reconnecting with myself, remembering who I was before the exhaustion, before the guilt, before the constant pressure.
I started taking small steps to care for myself—mind, body, and soul—so I could truly be present for my family. And slowly, I realized something so simple, yet so profound: when a mom is happy, the entire family dynamic changes.
The truth is, I can't pour from an empty cup.
I had to heal so I could show up fully for my kids, my husband, and for myself. Now, I know this journey isn't linear, and I'll never be the “perfect” mom. But I am a real and connected mom, and that's enough.
If my story resonates with you, you're not alone.
Let me show you the lessons I've learned throughout my own journey.
And show you how to reconnect with yourself and those you love.
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