Last weekend, I found myself surrounded by over a hundred of my closest friends, fueled by cheap punch, questionable nachos, and the delightful discovery of Insomnia Cookies. We gathered to celebrate the 35th anniversary of our beloved a cappella singing group from college. Go ahead and chuckle at the nerdiness of it all, but to me, singing with this group shaped a significant part of who I am.
From the age of four until I graduated at twenty-two, music was my life. I intentionally chose a university with a vibrant singing culture that rivaled its Greek life. The bonds formed during those years, especially while crammed together in a 15-passenger van traveling across the country, are among the deepest connections I have.
During our reunion, it felt like no time had passed since we last came together 15 years ago, before any of us had kids or “real” jobs. We shared stories, laughter, and of course, music. The weekend culminated in a spectacular concert, and as we parted ways to return to our daily lives, I wished I could say I felt rejuvenated and ready to face the parenting challenges ahead—like helping my son locate “Morton,” a Lego figure.
Instead, I returned home with a pang of sadness. For three brief days, I had reconnected with a part of myself that had faded since becoming a mother, a part that seems to vanish under the weight of responsibilities. Now, I feel reduced to just “Mom,” with my singing limited to lullabies and shower solos. It’s not just the music I miss; it’s the intensity of those friendships, the late-night talks, and the spontaneous laughter that don’t happen in the kindergarten drop-off line.
As a cognitive-behavioral psychologist would suggest, I should reconnect with that part of me—perhaps start singing again. However, at this stage of my life, the idea feels impractical. I can’t just drop everything to perform or stay up all night laughing with friends; my kids are early risers who wake me at the crack of dawn. I dream of doing community theater, but rehearsals are scheduled during the only hours I get to spend with my children.
I know I’m not the only parent who grieves the loss of their former self. We all make sacrifices when we become parents. It’s not simply about time; it’s also about the energy that seems to dwindle. If I were to pick up singing again—an attempt I made at the reunion that felt more like a cat in distress—I would need to practice regularly. By the time my kids are in bed, I’m often too exhausted to even think about it.
For now, singing isn’t on my radar, and I resent that I have to set aside something I love. Yet, I recognize that it’s possible to cherish my role as a parent while mourning the parts of myself that have faded. I feel a deep sorrow over the loss of my musical identity, but I also feel immense joy when my children greet me each morning, singing at 6 a.m.
Five years from now, my kids will be 10 and 7. Perhaps then, I can revisit my passion for theater, or even start a band with a neighbor. Who knows? Maybe I can inspire other moms to join me in an a cappella group—imagine the Mom-tones!
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In summary, as I navigate the complexities of motherhood, I continue to wrestle with the balance between my identity as a parent and the person I was before. While I may not be able to prioritize singing right now, I hold onto the hope that one day I can rediscover that passion.