I Love My Child, But I Miss Who I Was Before Motherhood

I didn’t expect this.  To miss myself...  

I expected to be tired.
I expected to be overwhelmed.
I expected my life to change.

What I didn’t expect was the quiet grief. The low, dull ache of realising that the version of me who used to exist now lives somewhere I can’t quite reach.

Not gone.
Just buried.

I Miss How My Mind Used to Work

I used to finish thoughts.

Now my brain feels like a browser with 150 tabs open and one of them is screaming.

I forget words mid-sentence.
I walk into rooms and forget why.
I rehearse conversations in my head and never get to have them because someone needs something before I can finish a single thought.

I miss being sharp.
I miss feeling competent without being exhausted.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get that version of my mind back — or if this fog is permanent.

I Miss Being Unobserved

Before motherhood, my body was just… mine.

Now it’s constantly needed.

Hands grabbing.
Mouths feeding.
Someone always touching me.

Even when no one is touching me, my body is on standby. Listening. Waiting.

I can’t relax properly anymore.
I don’t remember what it feels like to fully switch off.

Sometimes I flinch when someone reaches for me — and that thought alone makes me feel like I’ve failed at something I can’t even name.

I just really want a few minutes by myself.

I Miss Being More Than “Mum” 

People don’t ask about me anymore.  They ask about the baby.

And I answer. Every time. Automatically.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped volunteering anything else. My opinions. My dreams. My inner life. It felt indulgent. Irrelevant.

I became the container for everyone else’s needs.

And the worst part?
I let it happen because it was easier than correcting it.

The Loneliness That Comes With Being Needed

This is the part that feels cruel.

You’re never alone — and yet you feel deeply lonely.

You’re surrounded by people who need you, but very few who actually see you.

You can’t explain this without sounding ungrateful, so you don’t.
You just carry it.

Quietly.

Sometimes I Grieve in the Smallest Ways

I grieve when I put on clothes that don’t feel like me.
I grieve when I cancel plans without even feeling disappointed anymore.
I grieve when I scroll past old photos and feel like I’m looking at a stranger I used to know intimately.

Sometimes I miss her so much it hurts.

And then my child laughs. Or reaches for me. Or falls asleep on my chest. Or says something cute.

And the love is so big it almost knocks the breath out of me.

So I feel everything at once.

The Guilt Is Heavy

I feel guilty for missing myself.

Guilty for wanting space.
Guilty for wanting quiet.
Guilty for wanting to be alone.

I tell myself other women cope better.
That I should be more grateful.
That I chose this.

All of that can be true — and it can still be hard.

This Isn’t Regret

I don’t regret my child.

I regret how completely motherhood consumes women without warning.

I regret how little space there is to talk about the loss that comes with the love.

I regret that no one told me I might have to grieve myself while learning how to love someone more than anything I’ve ever known.

What I’m Learning, Slowly

I’m learning that I don’t need to go back.  That version of me lived a different life.

But I do need to come forward again — in pieces.

In tiny rebellions.
In moments where I choose myself without explaining.
In remembering that I am allowed to exist outside of being needed.

I’m learning that missing myself doesn’t make me a bad mother.

It makes me a whole one.

If You Feel This Too

You’re a woman who became a mother in a world that expects you to disappear quietly into the role.

But that woman you miss?  She’s still here.

She’s just waiting for you to come back to her — when you’re ready, and in your own time.

For now she waits. 

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