On Devotion, Identity, and the Radical Act of Still Being Yourself
Motherhood has a strange way of flattening a woman into a single role.
You become “Mom.”
Not Nicki. Not the woman with opinions, hobbies, desires, stories, scars, playlists, sarcasm, and dreams. Just…Mom. The one who packs snacks, wipes tears, answers questions about dinosaurs at 6:30 in the morning, and somehow knows where everyone’s missing shoe is.
And I love that role. I truly do.
My girls are the most important thing in my life. Full stop.
But somewhere along the way, society quietly slipped mothers a rulebook that was never formally announced: good mothers disappear.
The more invisible she becomes as a person, the better she must be doing.
And that rulebook? I reject it.
The Myth of the Self-Sacrificing Mother
There is this cultural image of motherhood that borders on sainthood.
The perfect mother gives everything.
Her time.
Her body.
Her sleep.
Her identity.
She pours herself out until the cup is bone dry and then smiles politely while someone hands her a “World’s Best Mom” mug like that’s a sufficient replacement.
But a woman is not a sacrificial altar.
A woman is a whole person who happens to be raising other whole people.
Somewhere in history, motherhood became synonymous with erasure. As if loving your children deeply means the rest of you must dissolve into the background like a ghost haunting your own life.
And that idea does not sit right with me.
Probably because I’ve spent enough time in graveyards to know ghosts don’t look particularly happy about it.
The Women Our Daughters Are Watching
Here’s the piece people forget.
Our daughters are studying us.
Not in the obvious ways—like how we braid their hair or how we pack their lunches—but in the quiet moments when we think they aren’t paying attention.
They are learning what adulthood looks like.
They are learning what womanhood looks like.
They are learning what they are allowed to become.
If all they ever see is a woman who disappears into exhaustion, guilt, and self-denial, what lesson does that teach them?
That love equals losing yourself.
That motherhood means your dreams quietly pack their bags and move out.
That a woman’s purpose is to exist entirely in service to everyone else.
I refuse to teach my daughters that version of womanhood.
They deserve to see a mother who loves them fiercely and still exists as her own person.
The Importance of a Life That Is Yours
I am a mother.
But I am also a writer.
A woman who sits up too late turning feelings into songs.
A blogger who spills thoughts onto the internet like emotional tea leaves.
A thrifter digging through bins for treasure like some chaotic raccoon.
A woman who laughs too hard at SpongeBob quotes and still dreams about stories that haven’t been written yet.
Those pieces of me did not evaporate the day my daughters were born.
And they shouldn’t have.
Because the truth is something many mothers are quietly afraid to say out loud:
You can adore your children and still need space that belongs only to you.
That space is not selfish.
It’s oxygen.
The Difference Between Escape and Balance
There is a big difference between abandoning your responsibilities and maintaining your identity.
Balance looks like this:
Showing up for bedtime stories and school projects…
while still allowing yourself time to write, create, laugh with friends, or chase a weird idea that makes your brain light up.
It looks like being fully present when your children need you, while still remembering that you are a person whose life did not begin the moment they were born.
Motherhood expands you.
It should not erase you.
The Quiet Power of a Whole Woman
A woman who keeps pieces of herself alive becomes something powerful.
She becomes a mother who models independence.
A mother who shows her children what passion looks like.
A mother who demonstrates that life does not shrink when you have kids—it changes shape.
And maybe, just maybe, those girls grow up understanding something earlier than most of us did:
That they are allowed to be many things at once.
A caregiver.
A dreamer.
A creator.
A protector.
A complicated, evolving human being.
All at the same time.
The Legacy I Want to Leave
One day my daughters will be grown.
They will tell stories about their childhood. About the things they remember.
I hope they remember a mother who loved them endlessly.
But I also hope they remember a woman who was still alive in her own life.
A woman who wrote.
Who created.
Who laughed loudly.
Who chased curiosity wherever it wandered.
Because if my daughters learn anything from watching me, I hope it is this:
A good mother does not disappear.
She grows.
And she shows her daughters how to do the same.
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