How Mothers Slowly Lose Themselves
I didn’t realize I was losing myself at first. It happened gradually.
By the time I had my third son, I rarely left the house unless it was for groceries, doctor appointments, or visiting grandparents—always with kids in tow. I no longer knew who I was outside of “mom.” I used to sew. I used to quilt. I used to bake just because I enjoyed it. Over time, even those faded.
I tried gardening because it required less uninterrupted time. It felt like something I should be able to manage. But even that was a compromise, not a joy.
For years, there was no space for hobbies or creative outlets for moms. No time that was truly mine. Every day was shaped around needs that were louder, more urgent, and more visible than my own. I told myself it was normal. That my kids were young and needed me.
And they did.
But the years passed. They grew more independent. And somehow, the expectation that I would always be available never did.
When Passion Has Nowhere to Go
Four years ago, I discovered herbalism. Something about it lit up a part of me I had forgotten existed. I studied when I could—late at night, in stolen moments—but there was never enough time to go deeper. I still haven’t finished my certificate.
The interest didn’t disappear; it just got buried under responsibility.
I even tried adding it into our homeschool as part of science, hoping it could live there too. But my kids weren’t interested. And once again, something that mattered to me quietly slipped away.
Not long after that, I fell into learning about nutrition. The spark burned brightly for a while, then slowly fizzled—not because I stopped caring, but because I had nowhere to put it.
Passion requires space.
Growth requires time.
And I had neither.
Writing and Remembering Who I Am
For as long as I can remember, stories have lived in the background of my mind. Characters. Worlds. Scenes. They were places I escaped to when everything felt heavy.
I never thought to write them down. I didn’t believe they could become anything real. They were just imagination. Just noise. Just another thing I didn’t have room for.
Until this summer.
This summer, I started writing—and something shifted.
That summer marked the start of a creative journey that has completely transformed me. Writing led me to complete my homeschool book, Schooling At Home with Nerds: Stories of Chaos, Creativity, and Choosing Joy in Homeschool Life, which opened the door to my children’s series, The Realms of Knowledge Series. And now, the worlds that have lived in my mind for years are finally finding their way onto the page in my adult series, a project I hope to publish in the future.
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For the first time in a long time, I felt like me again. I carved out a small pocket of time each week. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I found a rhythm. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. This is part of reclaiming identity as a mom—taking back pieces of yourself that have been set aside for too long.
And then, just as quickly, that time disappeared.
Life changed. Needs grew louder. The world kept moving. And once again, the small freedom I had fought for slipped through my fingers.
The Exhaustion of Being Everyone’s Everything
I know it’s supposed to be flattering—to be needed so much. To be the first person everyone turns to. And it is, in its own way.
But it’s also exhausting.
It’s daunting to never finish a thought. To open your laptop and immediately hear a chorus of “Mom,” “Babe,” “Can I have…,” “Have you seen…,” “What can I…?”
Even sitting down feels like an invitation for interruption.
There are countless times I’ve announced that I’m going to write, asked everyone to find something to entertain themselves, only to finally sit at my desk and watch the door slowly open. A child peeking in to ask for food. A toy. Help with something they could probably solve on their own.
Or I’ll finally be in the flow, words coming easily, when my husband wanders in—bored, affectionate, wanting a kiss, asking if I’m almost done. By then, the revolving door has already worn my patience thin.
What I didn’t have language for at the time was that I was living in a constant state of mom burnout, so many mothers experience but rarely feel allowed to name.
“It’s Just a Hobby”… Until It Isn’t
This is the first time in twelve years that I’ve had something that resembles a job outside of homeschooling. And even now, it’s often dismissed as a hobby.
It’s treated as optional. As flexible. As something that can be paused or pushed aside because Mom is always available.
But this matters to me.
It isn’t because it makes money or because it looks impressive.
It gives me something nothing else has—a sense of purpose outside of being useful, and the freedom to express myself in a way that opens my world and invites others into it. This is an important part of finding yourself as a mother and exploring creative outlets for moms.
I love being a mom. I love being a wife. But for a long time, it felt like my worth was measured solely by what I could do for everyone else.
One night, that realization hit hard. I saw how easily everything I do could be replaced. Hungry? Go out to eat. Groceries? Order them online.
And yet, somehow, I am still the one holding it all together.
The one who knows where the shoes are—despite having three designated shoe areas.
Who answers “What’s for dinner?” every single day.
The one who cleans, cooks, plans, teaches, and chauffeurs everyone to the things they love.
The Cost of Always Being Available
The cost of that constant availability shows up in my body.
I carry the weight of everything on my shoulders—literally. They’re so tight some days it hurts to move. I clench my jaw in my sleep. My body holds the tension even when my mind tries to ignore it.
The emotions come in waves.
Anger, when my husband can kayak, bowl, or play disc golf without coordinating childcare.
Guilt, when one of the kids gets sick or goes through a stage where they need me more.
Grief, for the woman I used to be.
Resentment, over the small freedoms I don’t get—like twenty uninterrupted minutes alone in the car.
Shame, when everything finally boils over and I realize how much could have been avoided if I’d spoken up sooner.
Things are better now. We communicate more honestly. My husband helps more. I’ve learned that ADHD—his and our kids’—means hyperfocus, distraction, and missed cues, not a lack of care.
Understanding doesn’t erase old habits overnight, but it does give me language. And language changes things.
A Word to the Mothers Reading This
If you’re reading this and seeing yourself in these words, I want you to know something:
You are not broken.
Not ungrateful.
You are not asking for too much.
Wanting to feel human again doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you honest.
Sometimes the most radical thing a mother can do is give herself permission to breathe, even if that breathing comes in small, imperfect moments. This is part of reclaiming identity as a mom and practicing self-discovery in motherhood.
We’ve been taught that motherhood should be enough to fill every part of us—and when it doesn’t, we assume something is wrong with us. But maybe the truth is simpler. Maybe we were never meant to pour endlessly without being refilled.
Self-care alone isn’t enough. It’s a bandage, not a solution. You don’t just need rest—you need something you’re passionate about. Something that belongs to you as a mother.
Choosing to Take Up Space Again
Right now, “enough space” still feels elusive. Schedules change. Needs shift. I’m still figuring out where my time fits and how to protect it without apologizing.
Some days I succeed; other days, I don’t.
But what has changed is this: I’m no longer willing to disappear quietly.
I don’t have to earn my right to exist outside of motherhood. I don’t have to justify wanting something that belongs to me. And I don’t have to carry the guilt of that choice.
I’m done pretending I don’t need more than this, and I’m finished shrinking to fit the space left over.
And maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to either.