Hey Sweets,

This week marks 13 years since I became somebody’s mom.

Thirteen.

That’s over a decade of growing up alongside two girls who have seen me at every stage of womanhood, barely holding it together, silently sacrificing, learning as I go, and slowly waking up to the truth that motherhood can be sacred without being all-consuming. For the first time since becoming a mother, I finally feel like I understand the difference.

The myth is that motherhood is supposed to be your everything. That once you become a mom, you stop being anything else. That loving your kids well means giving up who you were and whatever you wanted in service of what they need. That’s the version of motherhood I swallowed whole. It was the version I saw, the version so many of us were raised by.

But it’s not sustainable. It’s not even healthy. What I thought was devotion was sometimes a mask for guilt. What I called sacrifice was sometimes fear. And what I believed was protection was sometimes avoidance.

The guilt…

Mom guilt has a way of rearing its head even when you’re doing your best. It shows up when you miss a game. When you’re too tired to cook. When you take a trip alone. When you set a boundary. When you buy something for yourself. When you sit still while the laundry piles up. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve already given; there’s always a whisper saying, “You should be doing more.”

More of what? More of the stuff that leaves us depleted? More of the kind of mothering that erases the woman behind it?

That guilt doesn’t come from God. It comes from conditioning. From generations of women who were told they only mattered when they were needed. Who had to fight for space in their own lives and often didn’t win. We inherited it. With their love also came their exhaustion.

For years, I was on autopilot. I thought I was doing the right thing by putting my girls first in every way. Every decision I made was for them. I stayed in jobs I hated, homes I didn’t feel safe in, routines that drained me, all because I was trying to build them a life better than the one I had. I told myself that’s what good moms do. We sacrifice. And in a lot of ways, I was building them a life better than mine. But what I wasn’t doing was building myself a life I could thrive in. That we could thrive in. I was building a house where my daughters could grow while I quietly shrunk in the corner of it.

I don’t want them to grow up thinking that’s normal.

And maybe the hardest question I had to ask myself was this: What if I do all this sacrificing, staying up late, showing up tired, putting my dreams on hold, and I still mess them up?

Not because I didn’t love them enough. But because I loved them so much, I forgot to love myself too. Because I was so focused on making their life better, I never taught them what joy looks like up close. Because I was present but never really home within myself.

What I want most is to raise daughters who are free. Free to choose themselves, to rest without guilt, to set boundaries without shame. And how can they learn that if the only version of womanhood they’ve seen is one where I disappear in motherhood?

I don’t want to give them a version of love that looks like depletion. I want to give them a version that looks like wholeness. A love that includes me too.

And that’s what brought me here to this 13th year, and this shift that’s still in motion. I didn’t have a breakdown. I didn’t hit rock bottom. I started waking up to my own life. I started realizing I couldn’t remember what I liked to do for fun. Noticing how often I felt resentment underneath my routine. Catching myself saying, “One day I’ll rest” one too many times.

So I started asking questions.

Who am I outside of them? What do I need to function AND feel alive? What would it look like to build a life where I’m not only surviving the day?

The answers are not all coming in at once. But one of the first steps is giving myself permission to exist again, not only as “Mom,” but as me.

This looks like going to therapy and telling the truth when I’m asked, “How are you?” This looks like resting on purpose, not waiting until I’m burnt out. This looks like saying no to things that don’t align. This looks like letting myself dream again without shame.

And I’m not gonna lie, it’s messy. Some days, I still feel guilty. Some days I backslide into old habits. But I remind myself I’m not doing this to be perfect. I’m doing it to be whole.

The more I learn to separate guilt from truth, the easier it becomes to choose differently. To choose peace over performance, intention over image and presence over pressure.

Because identity loss is not a joke.

It happens slowly. You’re running errands, making meals, doing drop-offs, and before you know it, you haven’t heard your full name in days. You forget what kind of music you like. You stop doing your hair the way you used to. You buy clothes based on how fast you can get them on and off. You move through life on a loop. 

Whats sucks is sometimes, people applaud you for that.

They say you’re strong. They say you’re amazing. They call you supermom.

But being praised for your exhaustion isn’t the same as being seen.

I see me and I won’t be a cautionary tale.

Breaking generational patterns looks like not yelling back, apologizing first, letting your kid have a feeling without shutting it down AND taking care of your body because you want to feel good, not just look good. Letting your children see you rest. Letting them see you love yourself.

I want my girls to know that their mother didn’t live small. That I didn’t disappear behind motherhood. That I didn’t teach them to sacrifice their joy in the name of love.

They deserve better than that. And so do I.

So if you’re where I’ve been, I see you. If you’re tired, I see you. If you feel invisible, I see you.

You can come home to yourself again. You don’t have to wait for permission. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to apologize for it.

The work you’re doing is holy. But so is your healing.

This is what reclaiming yourself looks like: not a big speech or a dramatic change, but a series of honest decisions. To be here. To be whole. To keep showing up, for them and for you. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when no one claps. Especially then.

Because healing in real time, in front of your children, is not a weakness. It’s a legacy shift.

You deserve to live a life that feels like yours.

With love, Tru