June 28, 2021
I vanished on May 13, 2013. I can recall it vividly. Lying in my shared hospital bed, recovering from an emergency C-section, I tried to rest as chaos surrounded me. Family members were bustling about, loudly sharing the news of the new arrivals, Lily and Ava. Nurses entered frequently to draw blood, administer medications, and check on my recovery—whether I was awake or not. Friends came to meet the babies, granted direct access to my room, even while I was half-dressed and attempting to pump. Estranged relatives appeared after seeing the announcement online.
I was unceremoniously moved from my comfortable labor room to a stark surgical suite, where my children were swiftly brought into this world. I was wheeled into a bland recovery room, drifting in and out of consciousness, anxiously waiting for updates on my babies’ health, begging for water only to be told, “not yet.” Eventually, I settled into a room with a flimsy curtain for privacy, where I was poked and prodded day and night, feeling completely exposed. There was no regard for my physical or mental recovery—my wants were irrelevant.
Gradually, I felt pieces of myself being chipped away. It became painfully clear how little my desires mattered, how little my hard-earned identity counted. And it wasn’t just the external pressures; I surrendered parts of myself willingly, believing that selflessness was the essence of motherhood. After all, that’s what society expects, right?
A few years later, I realized I had stopped looking at my reflection. When I finally did, I gasped. Who was this woman? My life no longer felt like my own, and I had lost sight of the person I had worked so hard to become. My preferences and choices felt insignificant. Whether I wanted to be alone or engage with others didn’t matter.
Everyone seemed to know better than me about everything in my life, which revolved around my children. Every choice I made was for them. I dedicated my time to feeding, cleaning, and worrying about Lily and Ava. When I encountered someone I knew, the first question was always, “How are the girls?” It never changed.
As I write this, I glance down at my clothes, which are part of a rotation of five outfits that still fit. My body is a mess from motherhood—my hips have widened, my hair is thinning, and I struggle with daily challenges. My polish is chipped, my clothes have holes, and I can barely keep up with the endless demands. Days pass, and my husband and I barely exchange a glance.
I feel frumper than ever. Yet, the little money we have goes to ensuring our children have what they need. It never seems to end. All the while, I feel invisible. When visitors arrive, my children steal the spotlight. I can’t recall the last uninterrupted adult conversation I had. More often than not, I retreat to another room, trying to escape the noise.
I adore my daughters, but I am not defined by them. I cherish silence, the sound of birds, and meaningful conversations. I long for deep laughter with interesting people or even quiet moments with a book. I love getting lost on long hikes and savoring a good pizza in a cozy spot.
I am also someone who delights in the joy of my daughters’ laughter and their affection. I love nurturing their independence and discovering who they are as individuals. I am Lily and Ava’s mother, but I’m also the girl who used to command rooms and have big dreams. I am a mother, but I am also more than that. I am still here, beneath these worn clothes and chipped nails, waiting for someone to notice me again. I long to reclaim the life I once envisioned.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the transformative experience of motherhood that began on May 13, 2013, feeling invisible and lost in her new role. Despite the joy her daughters bring, she grapples with the loss of her identity and the overwhelming demands of parenting. The narrative highlights the struggle for self-recognition amid the chaos of motherhood, emphasizing the need to reclaim personal identity while nurturing her children’s growth.