Motherhood is often portrayed as a linear journey, one where you give birth, make adjustments, and slowly fall back into your pre-baby self. But that’s a myth. The truth is, you never get the old version of yourself back. That person is gone the moment you hold your baby in your arms, and instead, you’re thrust into a whirlwind of change, one that redefines who you are with each child. You’re left navigating a new chapter, and with it, a brand new you.

I used to hold onto the idea that I would eventually reclaim my old self. I thought that once the sleepless nights were over and my routine was settled, I’d find that girl who used to have her evenings to herself, who had time to get lost in a book or meet up with friends without checking her watch constantly. But it never happened. The more I tried to squeeze back into that old life, the more I felt out of place, like trying to fit into a beloved dress that just doesn’t button up anymore.

After Nia, I struggled to recognize myself in the mirror. I felt disjointed, disconnected. My days became consumed by feedings, diaper changes, and an endless loop of naps and soothings. I was no longer just ‘me’—I was ‘Mama.’ And as much as I adored this new title, I resented the loss of my own name, my own identity. I’d stare at old photos, trying to will myself back into them, trying to remember what it felt like to be that carefree person with ambitions unburdened by responsibility. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was grief.

But with time, therapy, introspection, and encouragement from my closest friends, I’ve realized that going back is impossible. You can’t reverse the changes motherhood brings. That ‘old me’ isn’t just tucked away, waiting for the right moment to reappear—she is gone. And so, instead of fighting to find her, I began to ask: who am I now? What does this new version of me love, cherish, and crave? What does she need?

By the time Leo came along, I knew a little better. I knew better than to expect to “bounce back” and understood that I had to step into a new phase of “two under two.” It wasn’t a chance to rediscover myself, but rather to be more calm and grounded in parenting. Yes, there were new things with Leo—new rhythms, new sleepless nights, new emotions—but at least now I wasn’t starting from zero. I had some experience to draw from, a foundation that helped me navigate the chaos a little more steadily.

With Nia, I found perseverance. I was forced to slow down, to sit quietly and attend to my child when the old me would have rather been doing a million other things. I had to learn how to be present, to breathe through the overwhelming moments, and to remind myself that being still was as valuable as being productive. With Leo, it is different. I’ve learned how to balance a baby on one hip while preparing Nia’s meals, how to sway and sing while answering emails in my head, and how to find moments of calm amidst the chaos. We’re still very much in the thick of it, but I can see glimpses of a rhythm forming, a delicate dance between exhaustion and fulfillment.

It’s funny how motherhood does that to you. It strips away the layers of who you thought you were and builds you up again, tougher and more tender at the same time. But the truth is, I don’t always feel stronger. I don’t feel confident yet, and I’m still in the thick of things with two babies. I don’t get enough sleep. It makes me want to weep. There are nights when exhaustion feels like a heavy, wet blanket wrapped around me, weighing me down. And then, in the darkness, I get a glimpse of Leo’s face. And he smiles, or reaches for my hand, and I get the strength to get through that night. And the next. I constantly doubt myself. I have made decisions that have altered the trajectory of my career, decisions I sometimes question in quiet moments when I wonder if I did the right thing.

And despite my best intentions and deliberate effort, I find myself yelling at my toddler. Everything feels like a battle at this age: a battle to eat, to brush teeth, to do the most basic of things. And every time I lose my cool, I’m overwhelmed with guilt. I wonder how other parents manage to be gentle and patient. How do they manage to stay calm in the face of endless tantrums and refusals? Is it because they’re more rested? Less on edge? I desperately want to be that kind of parent—the one who knows how to de-escalate and connect calmly. I have a stack of parenting books lined up on my shelves and on my Kobo, full of advice on how to do better, to be better. But where’s the time to read them? Where’s the energy? It’s like being trapped in a hamster wheel, running in circles, desperate for answers I can’t seem to reach. And yes, I sometimes fantasize about being hit by a car—not enough to cause serious harm, but just enough to give me a night or two in a bed all by myself. A brief pause. A chance to breathe. To stop moving for just a moment, without the weight of constant demands. It’s not pretty, but it’s real.

This is where I am right now. Still finding my way, still struggling to balance being the mom I need to be and the woman I want to be. Some days, I don’t even know what I want, except maybe an hour of uninterrupted sleep. And that’s okay. Because I’m still learning. I’m still stumbling. I’m still breaking and rebuilding, over and over again. Motherhood doesn’t come with a clear path, and each new chapter I enter with my children teaches me something different, something unexpected.

There’s a freedom in letting go of who I thought I should be. When I stopped reaching back, I freed up my hands to embrace what’s right in front of me. To learn who I am becoming. The journey isn’t easy. There are days when I look at my reflection and wonder who this tired woman is, with bags under her eyes and hair in the same bun as three days ago. But then there are days when I catch a glimpse of a new confidence, a strength that didn’t exist before. The way I can balance a toddler’s tantrum, a business call, and dinner prep all in the same hour without missing a beat—it’s a superpower I didn’t know I had.

I’m not the “old me,” but I am becoming someone who is fuller, richer, and more attuned to life’s many facets. And isn’t that what motherhood is all about? Embracing the journey, the changes, and finding yourself over and over in the most unexpected ways.

So if you’re like me, trying to navigate these ever-shifting waters of motherhood, I want you to remember one thing: you’re not losing yourself. You’re transforming. You’re becoming a version of yourself you never imagined, and that’s a powerful thing. Each child is a chapter, and each chapter is a chance to become someone new. Someone wiser. Someone stronger. Embrace it. Let the old you go. Grieve her if you must, but don’t let that grief hold you back. Open yourself up to the possibility that who you are now is just as valuable, just as worthy, and just as beautiful. Because she is. And because you are.