Before I was a mother, I was a whole person.
I laughed louder.
I walked slower.
I dressed for the day I wanted to have — not the day that was surviving me.
There were pieces of me I didn’t even know I’d miss:
the version of me who took her time choosing tea in the morning,
who read books without counting pages,
who could make plans without checking who needed snacks, socks, or comfort first.
Now… she feels like a memory I visit in quiet moments.
Motherhood didn’t take her away — it just layered life on top of her.
Sometimes I feel her stirring beneath the noise:
when I hear a song I loved before I ever heard someone call me “Mama,”
when I catch my own reflection looking tired and beautiful in a way I never was before,
when I remember that I have dreams that still belong to me.
And there’s a part of me that whispers:
“I miss who I was.”
But there’s another part — just as soft, just as honest — that says:
“She’s still here. She’s growing with you.”
Because the woman I was before didn’t disappear.
She became the woman who can soothe storms with a whisper.
She became the woman who knows love so deep it aches.
She became the woman who wakes up tired and still chooses love again and again.
Motherhood didn’t erase me.
It expanded me in ways I never asked for and ways I’m still learning to honor.
So I am relearning myself.
Piece by piece.
Slowly.
Softly.
Not going back —
but going toward myself.
The woman behind the mother.
She is not lost.
She is becoming.
I am both memory and becoming.
I am both soft and strong.
I am still here.
— forget ME nots…
for every version of you, still here.