On the OG Heather and Why I Go to Bed After Midnight

Before I had kids, I used to pride myself in my confidence and self-awareness. Even as a teenager, I knew who I was (relatively speaking), what I was good at, what I was passionate about, and what was important to me. “HEATHER HAS A STRONG SENSE OF SELF,” is probably what I’d confidently say if anyone asked me about my best character trait. I’ve never been one to shy away from doing whatever it was I felt led in my heart to do, regardless of how unpopular/crazy/stupid it seemed to others. I’ve always been proud of that.

But then I became a mom. Pure, all-encompassing, sacrificial love poured out of me in a way I couldn’t comprehend before my oldest was born. Even at the times when I felt the most physically weak and exhausted, my heart bursted with a fullness that cannot be accurately described with words. When I placed each one of my three girls on my chest during the exact moment they took their first breath of air, I gave myself wholly to them. I vowed to love every inch of them—inside and out—because they were now a living, breathing extension of myself. Part of me, forever. My moon and my stars.

I had no idea that through this devotion, I’d soon lose something I never thought I’d misplace.

You see, when I had kids, my steadfast sense of self that I’d once taken so much pride in, seemed to back away in order to make room for them. Did my brain not have the mental capacity to retain “original Heather” as it learned and memorized the ins and outs of motherhood? Surely, my brain, with its 86 billion neurons and higher-than-average IQ, would be able to remember the old me and simply merge it with my new responsibilities. One would think. My life was now full of so many incredible things that made my soul bubble over—first steps and first words and midnight cuddles and family trips—but when I laid in bed at night—fragile, overwhelmed, and guilty—I hardly recognized myself.

Why don’t I do goofy dances to the music playing in the grocery store anymore? Why don’t I flirt with my husband? Why don’t I call my girlfriends? When was the last time I wrote? (Didn’t I always dream of writing a book?) Why do I cry all the time? Why am I plagued with so much guilt? Was there anything else I even liked to do that didn’t involve breastmilk, diapers, or cartoons? What’s going on in the world? I should be ashamed that I don’t even know anymore. When was the last time I wore high heels?  Why do I feel so much resentment toward so many different people and things in my life? Why did I snap at her like that today? Why do other babies sleep through the night so easily?

“Help me!” I could have sworn I heard The Old Heather cry from a dark, shadowy, and cobweb- covered corner in my mind. Had I lost her? I really liked the old me. I missed her spunk. Life as  her didn't feel this heavy.

Some of the older moms (including my own) in my life told me it was just a phase, and the age-old “this too shall pass” mantra was tossed my way more times than I can count. Other moms told me that you never really find yourself again because once your babies get older, your life just revolves around their sports, activities, and homework. Basically, you go from a living, breathing milk machine with bags under her eyes to a professional shuttle service and concierge. Great.

But now, here I am on the “other side” of the infant stage with a five-year old, three-year old, and one-year old. I’d like to say that I’ve triumphantly uncovered The Old Me and I’m now more confident, free-spirited, and sure of myself than ever, but that’s not the case. However, as I’ve become more seasoned in motherhood—battled some bouts of baby blues, spent hundreds
 of hours shushing colicky babies who wouldn’t be consoled, and memorized their weight on my right hip—I’ve learned a few things and reached some milestones that are encouraging and point positively toward my future.

• Some of those ladies were right, the fog does lift...at least a little bit. As your kids get older, your responsibilities don’t lessen, but you get into a routine that allows you a little bit more time for yourself. ROUTINE. (I can’t believe I just said that word—it’s the arch-nemesis of my deep rooted Type B personality.) As each child grows, they become a tiny bit more predictable, a tiny bit more independent, and a tiny bit more reasonable (finally—bribery works!). These evolutions, albeit small, allow mama just enough breathing room to do what she needs—exercise, write, talk to a friend, etc. I’m just now starting to rediscover old hobbies and passions that make me feel alive inside.
• ALONE TIME IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN SLEEP. I will never, ever go to bed immediately after my kids and husband. I would rather stay up for two days straight than be fully rested if it means being able to spend some solid time with myself. Dark, quiet evenings in my clean house are the only time in my day that people are not demanding things from me, climbing on me, or crying outside the door while I pee. Sometimes, in very special and rare moments, I remember again what it feels like to be a creative person. Inspiration usually finds me some time around midnight, and after those nights I wake up with a tingly fullness in my spirit.
• I need to care for myself as well as my children. You do, too. Seriously. Start NOW. Exercise. Get a hair cut. See a therapist. Walk the aisles of Target alone. Talk about your deep, dark feelings. Get drinks with your girlfriend. Eat healthy, whole foods that fuel your body well. Also eat ice cream.
• Change is okay. Different does not equal bad.

I always feel compelled to wrap my writing in a nice little bow. I’ve assumed that readers want to read a thought-provoking conclusion that brings everything full circle. However, this can’t be punctuated with a positive, conclusive statement of assurance, because I’m just not there yet. I’m still working on the guilt and occasional feelings of resentment and I still frequently experience what feel like existential crises. (BUT WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?)

So here is the question that persists: Will I ever be “there?” I’m not really quite sure if I know where “there” really is anymore, but I think I’m learning to lean into little bits of The Old Me in everything I do. I’m growing and maturing throughout this process, even when it feels like I’m not, and my sweet, inquisitive girls are now causing me to self-reflect more than ever before. I’m learning to reject comparison in all its forms, because momming is hard enough as it is without expecting myself to live up to other’s standards or parenting styles.

Most importantly, I’m learning to practice self-care. When my emotional, mental, and physical tanks are filled up, I’m able to see beyond the kid-filled chaos that’s in front of me at the moment and grasp onto the things that make me, ME. I can’t believe it took my five years to realize that I needed caring for, too.

Moms, I know what you’re feeling and I feel it too. Solidarity, sisters. Even though we often feel alone in these Big Feelings that we pressure ourselves to bury, we’re likely all experiencing the same thing. You're still in there, girl. You're still in there.

Love,

A mom who has to wake up in four hours.


1st photo- Shannon Addison Photography
3rd photo- Erin Brooks