The Quiet Sacrifices No One Sees

There’s no manual for this kind of love.

No checklist.

No performance review.

No paycheck.

No clock to punch out from.

Just the quiet, constant ticking of your child’s needs, and your own slowly fading voice in the background.

I became a mother eight years ago. Since then, I’ve also become a doctor, a chauffeur, a therapist, a chef, a teacher, a sleep scientist, and occasionally—when I’m lucky—a friend to myself. But those moments are rare. Because the truth is, being a mother often feels like being on call for a job that never ends. And while the world applauds sacrifice, no one talks about what it really costs.

Let me be clear: I love my child more than anything. I would cut through fire for him. I would die for him. I did not know my heart could stretch this wide. But I also didn’t realize how easily I could disappear in the process.

Before I had him, I had a job I loved. I was working in communications, traveling a bit, pushing myself toward something that felt big and meaningful. I had brunch plans on weekends. I went to spin class. I wore mascara. And I read books—real books, not just articles with titles like “How to Get Your Toddler to Eat Something Other Than Goldfish Crackers.”

Then he came, and everything stopped.

The shift wasn’t immediate. At first, it was a choice: “I’ll take some time off.”

Then it became a necessity: “Daycare costs more than my paycheck.”

Then a habit: “He cries when I leave.”

Then finally, a lifestyle: “I don’t think I can go back. Who will pick him up from school? What if he gets sick again?”

And suddenly, five years had passed. And I hadn’t had a full night’s sleep. I hadn’t gotten a raise. I hadn’t traveled. I hadn’t been to a doctor’s appointment that wasn’t his. I had missed weddings. I had stopped dreaming.

But he was thriving.

Healthy. Kind. Curious.

And isn’t that what I wanted? Isn’t that what matters?

I told myself yes. And most days, I still do.

But there are quiet moments—when he’s asleep or off at school—when I sit on the edge of my bed and wonder:

Who am I, besides his mother?

I see other women doing it differently. Some work full-time and outsource the rest. Some have family help, nannies, money. Some seem to juggle it all with glossy hair and clean kitchens. I tell myself I chose this. But did I?

Or was I raised to believe that good mothers give up their own dreams for their children?

I remember once telling a friend that I wanted to go back to school. Her face twisted just slightly: “But isn’t it a bit late for that? I mean… don’t you want to be there for your son?”

As if those two things couldn’t exist in the same universe.

As if being there for him meant vanishing from myself entirely.

And maybe that’s the hardest part—not the exhaustion or the loneliness or the way society talks about “supermoms” while doing nothing to support them—but the quiet erosion of self. The way you start referring to yourself as “Mom” even in your head. The way your wants get filed under “someday.” The way you start believing your value is only in how well your child is doing.

But here’s what I’ve learned, slowly and with many tears:

My child doesn’t need a martyr.

He needs a model.

He needs to see a mother who loves him deeply, yes—but also a woman who remembers she is allowed to exist outside of him.

He needs to know that it’s okay to pursue passion.

That showing up for yourself isn’t selfish—it’s survival.

That love can be steady and still make space for joy, for ambition, for selfhood.

So I’ve started small.

I got a babysitter on Wednesday nights. I go to a writing workshop now. I dusted off an old novel I abandoned years ago and started rewriting it in the half-hours I steal after bedtime stories. I joined a walking group of mothers who aren’t afraid to say, “I love my kids—and I’m overwhelmed. And I want more.”

I’m not the woman I was before motherhood.

I’m softer now, and stronger. Quieter in some ways, louder in others.

I still prioritize my child above everything. But I also recognize that he deserves a whole mother, not just a tired shell.

And that means I have to keep finding my way back to myself, again and again.

Because love is not meant to erase you.

It’s meant to expand you.

And maybe, just maybe, I can raise a boy who understands that.

Because he watched me fight for my own light.