IMissWhoIWasBeforeMotherhood
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3 min readThis chapter can be read aloud to you — a quiet, unhurried voice, nothing added to the words themselves.
I love my children, but I struggled to recognize the woman looking back at me. Both things are true and I spent two years thinking only one of them was allowed to be.
I used to paint. I used to drive with the windows down and no destination. Now I know the exact sound each of them makes before they cry.
I'm not asking for my old life. I'm asking to be a person inside this one.
Last week I bought paint. It's still in the bag. But it's in the house, and that counts.
A reflection
What part of you is still in the bag, waiting?
Seed content — a placeholder chapter written for this archive, not a verified submission.
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