There are days I catch a glimpse of her—the woman I used to be, before motherhood rewrote me from the inside out.
Sometimes she visits me in a flash of memory: walking through a store with nothing but her keys and her thoughts, or lying on the couch on a quiet Sunday afternoon with nowhere to be and no one to care for but herself. I remember her energy, her freedom, the way she carried herself through the world without the heaviness of constant responsibility. She had dreams that felt so achievable—neatly folded and within reach. Her body was her own, untouched by the sacred stretching, softening, and reshaping that would come from carrying life. She didn’t yet know what it meant to give so much of herself to someone else.
I miss her.
And for a long time, I didn’t think I was allowed to say that.
Because this version of life—the one I’m living now—is steeped in love. It is wild and loud and deeply beautiful. It’s full of small hands and morning snuggles and belly laughs that echo through the kitchen. It’s also full of purpose—the kind that runs deeper than anything I’ve ever known.
But here’s the thing: it’s also full of sacrifice.
Of pieces of me I’ve had to set down, sometimes quietly, without anyone noticing. Pieces that once made me feel whole.
I used to think grief only belonged to loss—the final, heartbreaking kind. But I’ve come to realize there’s a quieter grief that comes from transformation. The kind that says, “You’re still here, but you’re different.”
Becoming a mother didn’t erase me, but it did transform me. And like all transformation, there was a shedding. A letting go of identities I once clung to. The woman who made spontaneous plans, who had long stretches of silence in her day, who moved through the world without always being “on.” The version of me who knew herself without also being known as someone’s mother.
And some of those parts? I loved. I worked hard to build them. They mattered to me.
Letting them go hasn’t been easy. And that letting go deserves to be named. It deserves to be felt.
But here’s what I’m learning:
I can grieve the woman I used to be and still fully love the woman I’m becoming.
I can hold space for both.
Because this new me—this now me—she is softer in ways that matter. She is stronger in ways that don’t always get applause. She knows how to stay present through exhaustion. She knows how to listen with her whole heart. She knows how to love with her entire being, even when she’s running on empty.
She’s grown roots in places she didn’t even know existed.
She’s more than she was—not less.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of comparison. To look at the woman I used to be and wonder if I’ve lost her. But the truth is, she still lives in me—just in different ways now. Her dreams might look different, her days might be fuller, her body might bear new marks—but she’s still here.
So I’m learning to honor her.
I’m learning to thank the old me for getting me here. To acknowledge the beauty and strength she carried, and to let her rest in peace—not because she wasn’t enough, but because she laid the foundation for something new.
Maybe loving myself now means honoring all the versions I’ve ever been.
The girl with the big dreams.
The woman navigating motherhood.
The mother rediscovering herself.
Each version of me has been worthy.
Each version of me still is.
Even as I grow into the woman—and the mother—I’m still becoming.