I’ve wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember.
My baby sister was born when I was 10, and I treated her like my very own real-life baby doll. Growing up we were kids who played outside begging for 10 more minutes even though the sun had long disappeared. I’d always shared a special connection with nature and I spent a lot of time dreaming about the day I’d live in the middle of nowhere, barefoot and free, raising my kids, teaching them how to pull carrots from the dirt and feel the magic in the wind.

When I finally became a mother, it hit me like a tidal wave.
I loved it.
I still love it.
But holy hell, it cracked me wide open in ways I never saw coming.

Suddenly, my body didn’t feel like mine anymore.
The exhaustion was unreal — not just tired, but bone-deep, soul-sucking, can’t-keep-my-eyes-open tired.
The anxiety? Paralyzing.
My relationship with my partner? Strained, distant, heavy with resentment.
And me? I was drowning in my own life.

I woke up every day already behind.
Doing too much. Feeling like it wasn’t enough.
Not present enough. Not good enough.
And when I dropped a ball — even just one — I beat myself up like I had failed ateverything.
Even with my amazing son and my people who loved and supported me, I felt completely alone.

Nights were the worst.
When my battery was depleted and I had nothing left to give anyone, including myself.
That’s when the guilt crept in.
Was this it? Is this my life now?
Was I just meant to survive this?
Was I going to look back and realize I spent my son’s childhood anxious, disconnected, and buried under the weight of trying to do it all?

I wanted out — not of motherhood, but of the shame spiral that had become my life.
Out of the burnout. Out of the fake smiles.
Out of the hustle that had been running my life for way too long.

Then something shifted.
We moved into a house with a backyard — nothing fancy, but enough dirt to start a garden.
Not to become a homesteading Pinterest queen (spoiler: most of the veggies died), but just to reconnect. With the earth. With my son. With myself.

That little backyard didn’t grow much food, but it grew me.

I stopped chasing and started listening.
I let myself slow the hell down.
I stopped doing what looked good and started doing what felt true.

And from there, I began to rebuild — not the version of me I thought I had to be… but the one I actually am.

Now, now now…
Does that mean it’s all sunshine and rainbows? Absolutely not.
Does that mean I’m superior, healed and perfect? Mam, be real please.
Does that mean it’s linear and easy? HA, Holding patiences for yourself (and your toddlersaurus) is hard as fuck. We all have bad days.

But I am here to tell you the truth:

You don’t have to lose yourself in motherhood.
You don’t have to white-knuckle your way through life.
You don’t have to keep performing for a world that doesn’t see you.

You get to reclaim yourself.
You get to build a life that feels fucking good.
And you get to do it your way — messy, real, rooted, and alive.

Because it’s not just about surviving anymore.
It’s about coming home to yourself — loud, proud, and unapologetically whole.
You were never meant to shrink to fit this world.
You were meant to grow something wild.