I Love Being Their Mom, But I Miss Me Too

I love being Beckham’s mom.

That is undeniable.

My love for him, and for Jaxson, is one of the most unwavering, steady, and irrefutable parts of my life.

I love waking up to his smile. I love hearing him coo back at me when I talk to him. I love nursing him, holding him, comforting him, and being the person he searches for when he needs to feel safe.

I love that I am his mom.

And I wouldn’t trade this life for the one I had before him.

But lately, I’ve realized something else is true too.

I miss me.

Not because I want to go backward.

Not because I regret becoming his mom.

And certainly not because I want a life without him in it.

I just miss feeling like a person I recognize.

Somewhere Along the Way, I Started to Disappear

When your baby arrives, suddenly this tiny person becomes the center of your entire world.

Your thoughts are consumed by an overwhelming, indescribable love mixed with all the anxieties and worries that come with being responsible for meeting their every need.

When did they last eat? When did they last sleep? Are they making enough wet diapers? Was that sound normal? Are they breathing?

You learn their cues, their cries, their preferences, their schedule.

And slowly, without even realizing it, you stop prioritizing even your most basic needs.

Have I eaten? When did I last shower? Have I brushed my teeth today? When did I last leave the house for something that wasn’t an appointment?

For nine months, my body belonged partly to someone else. It grew him, protected him, and changed in ways I couldn’t control.

Then I gave birth, and instead of getting my body “back,” it took on a new job.

It healed from surgery.

It made milk.

It survived on interrupted sleep.

It carried, rocked, fed, and comforted a baby at all hours of the day and night.

My body has done extraordinary things.

But if I’m being completely transparent, when I look at it right now, extraordinary isn’t usually the first thing I see.

I Don’t Recognize the Woman in the Mirror

When I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize the woman staring back.

I see the weight I haven’t lost.

The cellulite.

The loose skin.

The acne.

The hair that has started falling out in clumps.

The tired eyes.

The pale skin that has barely seen the sun all summer.

I don’t feel attractive.

I don’t feel confident.

I don’t feel like myself.

I told my husband the other night, with tears in my eyes, that I hate myself—a feeling I had worked so hard to finally overcome.

I know what my body has done is incredible.

It grew two beautiful babies.

It delivered them.

It healed.

It nourished them.

I know I should look at it and feel proud.

And part of me does.

But another part of me looks in the mirror and misses the woman who used to be standing there.

I Miss Being Able to Just… Go

Sometimes I miss my independence and freedom.

But admitting that out loud makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Because, "What kind of mom says that?"

Maybe I'm a bad mom for missing those things.

I truly don’t know.

But sometimes it’s hard not being able to fulfill even your most basic human needs when you want to—showering or brushing my teeth as soon as I wake up, sleeping when I desperately need sleep, eating because I’m hungry, or even using the bathroom when I need to.

And sometimes it’s difficult not being able to simply do the things I want to do—leave the house at a moment’s notice, meet up with friends, go shopping, or just go somewhere without having to plan in advance.

Maybe that sounds selfish.

But to me, it doesn’t mean I don’t love my children or that I want my old life back.

It just means this is a season of life that looks a little different—one in which my baby’s needs and wants come before my own.

And I’m okay with that.

I just need to figure out how to make room for myself within it.

Because taking care of myself doesn’t take anything away from my children. If anything, it allows me to give them a better version of me.

Mother AND Caregiver

When Beckham was born, Julian and I didn’t just bring home a newborn.

We brought home a baby who needs medical care every single day.

Our days are measured in all the normal things that come with having a baby—feeds, naps, diapers, tummy time, snuggles.

But woven between those things are:

Catheterizations.

Medications.

Therapy.

Appointments.

Medical supplies.

Insurance claims.

Phone calls.

And constant worry—because sometimes the things other parents can dismiss as probably nothing aren’t quite as easy for us to dismiss.

Why is he fussier today?

Is this normal baby behavior?

Could he have a UTI?

Is his shunt okay?

Is this something I need to call about?

But the hardest part isn’t the newborn care or even the medical tasks.

It’s knowing that the responsibility for all of it never really leaves.

There Are Only Two of Us

Right now, only Julian and I know how to catheterize Beckham.

And because he needs to be cathed every two to three hours during the day, leaving him isn’t as simple as asking someone to babysit.

Someone can love him completely and still not be able to provide certain aspects of the care he needs.

But I don’t blame our family for feeling nervous about learning.

I can only imagine how intimidating it must feel to someone who has never done anything medical before.

We’re essentially saying, “Here is this completely foreign medical task. Now we need you to learn how to do it to a baby—your grandchild, your nephew—and then repeat this task every two or three hours.”

Of course that would feel intimidating.

Probably even scary.

I understand that.

And to be honest, leaving him creates anxiety for me too.

I’ve never been particularly good at leaving my babies with other people—even my oldest son, who didn’t have complex medical needs.

But having now parented both a typically healthy child and a child with complex medical needs, I can confidently say there is another layer of anxiety when you leave your medically complex child in someone else’s hands.

You aren’t only wondering whether their everyday needs are being met—whether they’ve been fed, changed, comforted, or put down for a nap.

You’re also wondering whether the person caring for them is comfortable and capable of performing the medical tasks they need. Whether they know what to watch for. Whether they would recognize the signs of a UTI, a possible VP shunt problem, or something else that needs medical attention.

That’s a different kind of trust.

And I’m still learning how to give it.

Until we get there, though, the reality is that there are only two people who can independently care for Beckham for an extended period of time.

His dad.

And me.

There Is Never Really an “Off” Switch

Beckham is three months old, and I haven’t been away from him for more than a few hours at a time.

There are also many weekends when Julian travels for work, which means I’m the sole caregiver, around the clock, unless family is available to give me a few hours to myself.

And when you are the primary caregiver, that responsibility can become incredibly heavy.

The mental load never completely shuts off.

When was he cathed last? When will he need cathed again? When is his next appointment? Do we have enough supplies to last this month? Why did insurance deny this claim? Why is he fussier than usual? Is something wrong?

And the physical exhaustion takes a toll too.

But I think that is where caregiver exhaustion becomes different from simply being tired.

It isn’t just needing more sleep.

It’s feeling like your brain has been running in the background for months without ever completely turning off—while your body is simultaneously trying to function on broken, poor-quality sleep.

And when you couple that with the inability to simply “tap out” and let someone else take over, it can feel completely draining, incredibly lonely, and beyond overwhelming.

And Somehow, I’m Also Incredibly Happy

This is where motherhood becomes difficult to explain.

Because I can write all of that and then walk into another room, see Beckham smile at me, and feel overwhelmingly happy.

Both are real.

I am tired.

And I am happy.

I am overwhelmed.

And I am grateful.

I sometimes desperately want a break.

And then I miss him when I’ve been away from him for an hour.

I miss having freedom.

And I love being needed.

I struggle with the body motherhood gave me.

And I am amazed by what that body has done.

I miss pieces of my old life.

And I wouldn’t trade my current life for it.

That’s the contradiction I keep coming back to.

I don’t want to go back.

I just don’t want to lose myself completely as I move forward.

Maybe I Don’t Need to Find the Old Me

People talk a lot about “getting your body back” after having a baby.

Getting back into your old clothes.

Getting back into a routine.

Getting back to work.

Getting back to feeling like yourself.

Everything seems to be about getting back.

But I’m starting to wonder whether that’s even possible.

Because the woman I was before Beckham hadn’t lived through everything I have now.

She hadn’t heard the diagnosis that would divide her life into a before and an after.

She hadn’t watched her newborn undergo surgeries.

She hadn’t learned how to catheterize her own baby.

She hadn’t spent hours dealing with insurance companies or medical supply orders.

But she also hadn’t met this little boy yet.

She hadn’t seen his smile.

She hadn’t heard his little voice.

And she had forgotten what it’s like when your baby looks at you like you’re his entire world.

How could I possibly go through all of that and come out exactly the same?

Maybe I’m not supposed to.

Maybe instead of trying so hard to “get back to myself,” I need to figure out who I am now.

Not only Beckham’s mom.

Not only Jaxson’s mom.

Not only Julian’s wife.

Not only a caregiver.

Me.

I’m not entirely sure who that version of me is yet.

And I think that’s part of what I’ve been grieving without realizing it.

I don’t necessarily miss my old life.

I miss having an identity outside of mom, wife, and caregiver.

I’m Still in the Middle

I wish I could end this post by telling you I’ve figured out how to balance all of it.

That I’ve learned how to take care of myself without feeling guilty.

That I look in the mirror and love what I see.

That I’ve figured out how to ask for help and actually accept it.

That I know exactly how to be a mom, wife, caregiver, and still make room for myself.

I haven’t.

I’m writing this from the middle of it.

I’m still tired.

I’m still struggling with my body.

I’m still learning how to hand over responsibility.

I’m still trying to figure out how to take care of the people I love without disappearing in the process.

And I’m still reminding myself that struggling with parts of this life does not mean I don’t love it.

Maybe another mother needs that reminder too.

Maybe you’re exhausted by newborn life.

Maybe you’re struggling with the body you see in the mirror.

Maybe you’re breastfeeding around the clock, surviving on broken sleep, dealing with postpartum anxiety or depression, caring for a medically complex child, or carrying a caregiving load that no one around you fully sees.

Maybe you’re incredibly happy.

Maybe you’re struggling.

Maybe you’re both.

You don’t have to choose one truth.

You don’t have to wait until you’re on the other side of this season to admit that it’s hard.

And you don’t need to turn it into an inspiring lesson before you’re allowed to talk about it.

Sometimes there isn’t a lesson yet.

Sometimes you’re simply in the middle.

And right now, that’s where I am.

I love being his mom.

I love the life we’ve created.

I don’t want my old life back.

I just want to figure out how to feel like me again within this new season of life.