PICKING UP THE PIECES OF "ME"

There was a time when I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.

I’d stand in front of the mirror and stare at the reflection of a woman who once used to laugh so loudly, love so deeply, and trust so easily — but she was gone. Replaced by someone who learned to apologize for everything. For being late after work. For not having enough money. For speaking too loud. For feeling too much. For existing in the wrong tone.

I spent years walking on eggshells, living under someone else’s rules, shrinking myself smaller and smaller until silence became my only form of peace.

And then one day — it ended.

The chaos stopped, but the silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was terrifying.

For the first time, I didn’t have anyone controlling my every move.
No one telling me when to speak, what to wear, how to breathe.

It was just me — and that should’ve felt freeing — but instead, it felt like stepping into an empty room where every echo carried the sound of everything I had survived.

At first, I didn’t know how to fill that space.

So I filled it with noise — with anger, with guilt, with alcohol, with questions that never had answers.

Was I really that unlovable?
Was I the problem all along?
Did I deserve the bruises, the words, the breaking?

It’s strange how the mind finds comfort even in pain — because pain, at least, feels familiar.

I drank to quiet the memories, to silence the ache that sat heavy in my chest.

I’d put my daughter to bed, clean up the house, and pour myself a drink. Sometimes while cooking, sometimes before bed. It became routine — not because I loved it, but because I didn’t want to feel.

I wanted to go numb.
Just for a moment.

But numb doesn’t last.
It fades, and when it does, the pain comes rushing back.

One night, I watched my daughter sleeping — her tiny hand curled around her blanket — and I asked myself, Does she deserve this version of me?

And I knew she didn’t.

So I decided to heal. Or at least try to.
But healing isn’t soft — it’s messy and slow and full of mirrors you don’t want to look into.

I buried myself in work. I poured my exhaustion into long hours and late nights, because being busy meant I didn’t have to think. But eventually, even work stopped being enough.

That’s when the small moments began — movie nights, ice cream dates, dancing in the living room with my daughter until we both couldn’t stop laughing.

Those little moments became my medicine.

And then, one day, I looked at myself in the mirror again.

I had color in my cheeks.
My eyes didn’t look so empty.

I started dressing up for no reason. Going out alone. Finding beauty in my own company.

For the first time in so long — I was proud of the woman I was becoming.

But even then, I still wondered… Was I ready to love again? Could I trust again? Could I let someone see the parts of me that were still healing?

That’s when I met my second daughter’s father.

And I thought, maybe this time, it’ll be different.

Maybe this time, love will feel safe.

But it wasn’t.

He was different — yet so painfully familiar.

The same control, the same manipulation, the same dismissiveness wrapped in different words.

His actions reminded me of everything I said I’d never settle for again.

He was gentle until he wasn’t. Loving until he wanted control. And every time he’d raise his voice or move too quickly, I’d flinch — not because of him, but because my body still remembered what fear felt like.

It was then I realized — I hadn’t failed at healing.
I had just misunderstood it.

Healing doesn’t mean you’re ready for love.
It means you finally recognize what love isn’t.

That’s what I learned from him.

Before I ever think of opening my heart to another man again, I’ll watch what he does.

What he does for me.For my girls. For himself.
What his dreams look like when no one’s watching.
Because words fade — but actions never lie.

So here I am now, still picking up the pieces of me —
not broken anymore, but rebuilding differently.

And maybe that’s what healing really is —
not becoming who I was before the hurt,
but becoming who I was always meant to be.

A Note from Mommy In Bloom 

There’s a strange stillness that comes after surviving — when your body no longer has to fight, but your heart hasn’t learned to rest.
That’s where I found myself… in the quiet rebuilding of my own spirit.

And maybe that’s why this chapter matters — because it’s the bridge between who I was and who I’m still becoming.

In my next letter, I’ll open up about what came after this stage — the fear, the hesitation, and the courage it took to let love back in again.

Because after the healing… comes the trusting.

With Love, 

Mommy In Bloom