Being a mom is a gift, but it can also be a quiet kind of losing yourself. Between meals, laundry, schedules, and the endless “mom duties,” there’s a part of you that slips away—a part you once knew, loved, and relied on to feel alive.
This is my letter to her. The woman I used to be. The one who faded quietly while I gave everything to my family. A letter about longing, grief, and the search for the version of me that still exists somewhere beneath it all.
I carry a name,
a body,
a life—
but the woman who once lived here
is nowhere to be found.
She didn’t leave all at once.
She thinned.
She softened.
She was swallowed
by days that never ended,
by needs that never stopped asking.
I search for her in the mirror—
or maybe I don’t.
Most days I avoid it.
Reflections, pictures,
because I don’t like who—
or what—
is staring back at me.
And when I do,
even for a second,
my chest tightens.
Tears rise before I can stop them.
I look at this body,
this face I no longer recognize,
searching, hoping,
waiting for proof that she still exists.
But she doesn’t show up.
I miss the way she took up space.
The way she dressed with intention,
hands steady as she painted her nails,
hair done simply because it felt good.
She mattered to herself once.
Now I move through days in baggy shirts,
messy hair pulled back,
mismatched socks, stained shirts,
shoulders heavy, posture aching.
And everyone notices.
They whisper.
They ask where she went—
the woman who smiled brighter,
who dressed herself like she mattered,
who shone even in the ordinary.
But they don’t see me.
They don’t see the battles I fight
with my mind,
with my body,
with my soul.
They don’t see the anxious hum
that never leaves my chest,
the weight of depression
that I hide behind a smile,
or a nod,
or a simple “I’m fine.”
I don’t want these clothes.
I don’t want this hair.
I don’t want to disappear into the day.
I don’t want to be invisible.
And yet, I am.
Because I don’t know how to reach her—
the woman I fought so hard to become,
the woman I loved,
who slipped away quietly
while no one noticed.
No one asks why.
No one wonders how she vanished.
They see the surface,
judge the shadow.
They don’t see the quiet wars I fight
every morning, every hour,
just to keep breathing.
I call for her in the quiet moments—
between meals,
between messes,
between the endless lists that never end.
I ask her to come back.
To show up.
To breathe.
But there is no room for her anymore.
This house is full of my giving.
I give meals and schedules,
clean clothes and calm voices.
I give comfort, regulation, safety.
I carry the remembering—
appointments, emotions, needs, worries—
the invisible weight that keeps everyone else upright.
And she—
she had nowhere to land.
So anxiety moved in,
tight-chested and restless.
Depression followed,
heavy and quiet,
settling deep where hope used to live.
I fight it.
Every day, I fight it.
Some days the fight costs more
than I have left to give.
I exist somewhere between
who I was
and who I’m trying not to lose.
Not gone—
just buried
under responsibility,
under silence,
under love that demands everything.
By nightfall, I am empty.
No spark.
No softness.
Only the ache of carrying too much
for too long
without being held.
But this letter is a search.
A reaching.
A quiet promise to the woman I miss.
She may not appear today,
but I keep looking—
because she is still here,
somewhere beneath it all.
Always,
Me
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