Motherhood Took Over My Life. Here’s How I Took Me Back.

One of the things I loathe most in life is grocery shopping. Period.

There is literally nothing worse than spending an hour or more of your precious mommy time wandering the aisles of a fluorescent-lit chaos zone, especially when you’re flying solo with a 3-year-old boy and a 5-year-old girl in tow. A boy and girl, mind you, who have zero interest in being there and negative capacity for good behavior.

And of course — because motherhood loves a good challenge — neither had taken a nap that day.

It was the perfect storm. The kind of afternoon that turns a simple grocery run into a war story. And yes, I survived. Barely.

Let me paint you a picture.

It’s a Saturday. I’ve been in a mood all day — not angry, not sad, just bone tired. That kind of invisible exhaustion that builds when you’re on the clock 24/7, responsible for everything and everyone, all while pretending like you’re fine. But we were out of everything. No milk, no cereal, no fruit. It was either drag my overtired children through the store or starve. So I chose battle. Because apparently, I’m courageous like that. (Or just a desperate mom running on caffeine and obligation.)

We walk in, and immediately, my daughter insists on pushing the cart. Cute, right? Wrong. Not even five minutes in, she rams it directly into one of those towering cardboard displays filled with giant jars of pickles. Glass explodes across the aisle. There’s a loud crash, followed by the collective gasp of every person within a 30-foot radius.

Cue the store manager, two employees, and what felt like the entire Saturday crowd turning to stare.

I tried to act calm, mumbling something like, “Oops, so sorry,” as if this was no big deal and not the most humiliating moment of my life. Meanwhile, my face was on fire, and I was silently praying the floor would swallow me whole.

But wait — it gets better.

As we’re navigating our way past a massive wall of gift cards, my son decides it would be fun to stick his arm out and swipe the display as we roll by. In seconds, hundreds of cards fluttered to the floor like some twisted holiday confetti.

And there I was — again — on my knees, frantically organizing and restocking cards in while people stepped over us and gave me those half-sympathetic, half-judgmental looks. You know the ones.

Right when I thought we were in the clear, my daughter started sobbing about her ear infection (which she did have), and my son, already fully overstimulated, began flailing and screaming. As one woman tried to squeeze past us, he accidentally clocked her in the face with his tiny little fist mid-meltdown.

At this point, I wanted to abandon the cart and sprint out the doors like a fugitive. But I couldn’t. Because I was the mom. The keeper of snacks. The referee. The responsible adult in charge. So I took a deep breath, clenched my teeth, and powered through.

I held it together until we got to the car. And then I cried.

I Didn’t Recognize Myself Anymore

That day, sitting behind the wheel with tears streaming down my face, something inside me cracked open. I realized I had become someone I didn’t recognize. A shell of the person I used to be. My life revolved around diapers, daycare, doctor’s appointments, and disaster management.

Somewhere between the spilled Cheerios and sleepless nights, I was losing me.

I had been so consumed with being a “good mom” that I forgot how to be a person. A woman. A dreamer. A whole human with passions, opinions, and desires beyond Target runs and bedtime routines.

And if you’re nodding along right now, I want you to know something: You are not alone.

After the gift card confetti and the accidental left backhand to a stranger’s face, I wanted to crawl into the freezer section and stay there until closing. I remember standing there, sweating in my oversized hoodie, tears welling up behind my glasses, clutching a coupon for 40 cents off applesauce as if that would somehow redeem the entire trip.

I wasn’t just overwhelmed—I felt invisible.

No one could see how hard I was trying. No one could see the weight I carried every single day. The emotional labor, the exhaustion, the mental checklist that never stopped running. The version of me I used to know—the one who had spontaneous laughter, creative ideas, energy for her dreams—she had slowly slipped into the background.

I had become someone’s mom. Not me. Just “Mom.”
And while I love my children more than life itself, somewhere along the way, I had stopped loving me.

When You Lose Yourself in Motherhood

This experience—this identity shift—is something so many women endure but rarely talk about. A 2021 study published in the Journal of Family Issues found that mothers of young children often experience a significant loss of self-identity, especially during the early years of parenthood. This isn’t just a feeling; it’s a psychological phenomenon.

We are taught to be selfless. To give. To nurture. To sacrifice.
But no one really teaches us how to hold on to who we are while we do that.

We go from having names to having titles—Mom, Wife, Caregiver, Scheduler, Chef, Housekeeper. And those roles are meaningful, but they are not our whole selves.

The Moment I Realized I Had to Take Me Back

After that grocery store meltdown, I didn’t go home and fix everything. I went home, gave the kids goldfish crackers for dinner, and realized I bought ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for myself!

But I did do something else: I paused. I noticed what I was feeling. I let myself admit that this wasn’t working. I didn’t feel like me, and that mattered.

I realized that if I kept living only for everyone else, I’d wake up ten years down the road and have no idea who I was.

So I made a decision. Not a massive life change. Not some elaborate Pinterest-perfect plan. I made a tiny decision that night:
I would take back just 10 minutes of my day.

Just ten minutes to myself—no guilt, no chores, no kids, no phone. I started using that time to check in with myself. Sometimes I journaled. Sometimes I cried. Sometimes I just sat in silence and breathed.

It felt revolutionary.

How I Slowly Reclaimed Myself

Taking back your identity after losing yourself in motherhood doesn’t happen all at once. It’s not a grand transformation. It’s a thousand tiny steps back home to yourself. Here’s what worked for me—and might work for you too:

• Create micro-moments of solitude: Even if it’s 5–10 minutes. Breathe. Reflect. Stretch. You are allowed to be a person, not just a parent.

• Reconnect with your passions: Think back to what made you you before motherhood. Did you love reading? Music? Painting? Gardening? Start with 10 minutes.

• Talk to yourself like you matter: If you wouldn’t say it to your daughter, don’t say it to yourself. Your voice is shaping your worth.

• Ask yourself new questions: Instead of “What do my kids need from me today?” try asking “What do I need from myself today?”

Research backs this up. A 2022 review in Psychology of Women Quarterly emphasized that women who maintain a sense of personal identity outside of motherhood report greater overall life satisfaction and lower levels of stress and anxiety.

You Still Matter

If you’ve ever felt like motherhood swallowed you whole, you are not alone. And it’s not selfish to want yourself back—it’s necessary. You were someone before you had children, and she still exists.

You’re allowed to evolve and hold on to the core of who you are. You’re allowed to create space for your healing, your hobbies, your happiness.

You’re allowed to say:
“I love my children deeply—and I still need me.”