This is a space for remembering.

For a long time, I thought I lost myself because I became a mother.

Because my body changed.

Because my time no longer belonged solely to me.

Because my life grew louder, messier, fuller.

But that wasn’t the truth.

Motherhood didn’t erase me.

It expanded me.

What diminished me was choosing the wrong partner — and then slowly shrinking to survive that choice.

Somewhere along the way, I learned how to be useful instead of whole. How to be needed instead of known. How to keep the peace instead of my voice. I mistook endurance for love and responsibility for intimacy. I believed that feeling invisible was just the price of adulthood.

It isn’t.

This blog exists because I am growing back into myself — quietly, deliberately, honestly.

I’m a mom. I love my children fiercely. They are not the reason I lost my sense of self — they are the reason I’m finding it again. They deserve a version of me who is present, alive, and rooted in truth, not just survival.

Here, I write about growth — the uncomfortable kind.

The kind that happens when you stop blaming yourself for adapting to something that was never healthy to begin with.

I also write fiction — slow-burn, memory-soaked stories about longing, identity, and the selves we leave behind when life asks too much of us. These stories aren’t escapes; they’re mirrors. They explore what happens when a woman remembers who she was before she learned how to disappear.

This space is anonymous on purpose.

Not because I’m ashamed — but because the work here is inward, not performative. This is about clarity, not spectacle.

If you’re here because you’re a mother wondering why you feel smaller than you used to…

If you’re here because you love your kids but miss yourself…

If you’re here because you’re starting to suspect the problem was never you…

You’re not alone.

This is a place for honesty without cruelty.

For growth without self-erasure.

For remembering that becoming a mother should not require becoming silent.

Welcome.