I don’t recognize myself in the mirror sometimes. It’s more than my body, though that has changed in almost every way possible.
It feels like there is a woman inside of me, begging to be let out; to let my hair down; to splash wild in the November ocean to have awkward conversations with strangers; to dance in the kitchen uninhibited with groggy eyes by the envelopes stuffed with bills; to be silly and smile more than not.
It’s not that I think motherhood is at odds with my truest self, but rather, motherhood’s load and the exhaustion of sleepless nights and the responsibilities of adulting sit heavy against the door where I keep her locked away.
I’m fighting to crack open the door and let the light in again — to sneak her into my daily rhythm, to remember how it feels to be random and romantic and reckless enough to feel alive, and to bring my kids along for the adventure.
I want them to remember me for my love of the gas station snacks we get along countless road trips more than my obsessiveness over the details of each destination. I want to be memorialized by the mark I’ve made on people and the memories I was fully present for, like puddle jumping fully clothed in denim. I want them to see me as a lover of life, instead of a lover of logistics.
May I just be brave enough to push past the sentries of stress and sleepiness and self-doubt long enough to see her in the mirror once again.
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