Almost six months. Almost six months of discovering a love so deep it feels endless, and almost six months of feeling like I’ve left parts of myself behind.
Aurora, my baby girl, is my light. Her laughter fills the air with joy, her tiny hands remind me of the beauty in small things, and her eyes hold a whole universe. I look at her and think, How did I get so lucky? But in the quiet hours, when she’s finally asleep, I sometimes feel the weight of a question I can’t shake: Where am I in all of this?
Motherhood has a way of consuming you. It’s beautiful, yes, but it also asks for all of you—your time, your energy, your heart. And in giving so much, I sometimes forget that I’m more than a mother. I’m a woman with dreams I’ve placed on a shelf, hobbies I’ve put on pause, and a self I’ve been too busy to recognize. Some days, I feel like I’m not enough. Not patient enough, not strong enough, not "mom" enough. I wonder if I’m doing right by Aurora, if she’ll grow up feeling loved in all the ways that matter. But then, in her smile, I find my answer: love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.
I’m learning to forgive myself—for not knowing everything, for making mistakes, for being human. I remind myself that Aurora doesn’t need a perfect mom. She needs me. And that’s what I’ll always strive to be: her safe place, her biggest cheerleader, her imperfectly devoted mother. But being her mom doesn’t mean I have to lose myself. I’ve started to reclaim little pieces of me. A stolen moment with a book, a quiet morning sipping tea, a few minutes to write my thoughts like this. These small acts feel like opening windows in a room I forgot was mine.
And then there’s us. Me and my husband. Our relationship has changed, too. It’s no longer the carefree love we had when we were newlyweds or the giddy excitement of our dating days. Now, it feels steadier, deeper—like a quiet river that runs strong beneath the surface. Quality time has become a luxury. We steal moments here and there, talking softly while Aurora sleeps, sharing knowing smiles across the room, or laughing over something silly she did that day. Most of our conversations now revolve around her—her milestones, her future, our plans as a family. But in between all of that, there’s still us. The teasing, the jokes, the occasional "You’re still my favorite," whispered like a secret. It’s different, but it’s ours. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Motherhood is a journey of both losing and finding. I’ve lost some of my old self, but I’ve also found new strength, new love, and a version of me that I never knew existed. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what life is about—growing, shedding, becoming.
At the end, all those times when I feel a little lost, I remember that I am still me. Beneath the diapers and sleepless nights, beneath the roles and responsibilities, there’s a heart that’s still beating for me. I take a moment to listen to it. I deserve to be cared for, too.
This journey isn’t perfect. It’s messy and tiring and full of questions with no easy answers. But it’s also beautiful in ways I never imagined. And that’s what makes it worth it.
:)
