I Thought Becoming a Mother Would Complete Me—It Didn't

I used to believe that motherhood would be the final piece of my puzzle—the last thing I needed to feel whole. I imagined it as this magical, transformative experience that would heal every part of me. I’d grown up romanticizing it: the lullabies, the sleepy cuddles, the deep sense of purpose. When I saw other mothers pushing strollers or picking out baby clothes with dreamy eyes, I felt envy, like they had access to something sacred I hadn’t yet earned.

So, when I found out I was pregnant, I cried—not tears of fear or anxiety, but of joy. I finally felt like I was on the path to becoming the woman I was always meant to be. The ultrasound photos, the nursery colors, the tiny socks—all of it thrilled me. Every kick inside my belly felt like a promise: This is it. You're becoming complete.

But no one warned me that sometimes, even when all your dreams come true, you can still feel lost.

My son was born on a rainy Thursday morning. He was perfect, red-faced and howling, with a mop of dark hair and fingers that gripped mine like he already knew me. I thought I'd be overwhelmed with the kind of joy you see in diaper commercials. And I was—for a while. The first few weeks were a haze of wonder and exhaustion. I lived off three hours of sleep and leftover casseroles from well-meaning relatives. I smelled like milk and spit-up. But I didn’t care. I was Mom.

Except... I also wasn’t.

Underneath the joy, something festered quietly. An emptiness I didn’t expect. I was proud to be his mother, but where had I gone?

The things that once made me feel alive—writing, long walks, deep conversations, spontaneous trips—were all pushed aside for nap schedules, diaper changes, and feeding times. I didn’t resent my baby. I adored him. But I couldn’t escape the gnawing feeling that I had disappeared.

No one asked how I was. They asked how the baby was sleeping. How he was feeding. Whether he was hitting milestones. I became invisible behind the tiny miracle I’d created.

I remember one night, holding him while he slept on my chest. The house was silent except for the tick of the clock and his soft breathing. I looked down at him and whispered, “I love you more than anything, but I don’t know who I am anymore.”

That admission terrified me.

I kept thinking, What’s wrong with me? Wasn’t this what I wanted? Didn’t I choose this? Didn’t I get exactly what I asked for?

The truth is, I did. But I’d been sold the lie that motherhood would complete me, rather than challenge me to reconstruct myself from the ground up.

Motherhood didn’t fill the gaps in me—it exposed them.

It held up a mirror and forced me to confront the parts of myself I had buried under ambition, people-pleasing, and years of not knowing how to say no. It made me face the woman I had become before the baby, and ask if she had ever truly been whole.

And here’s the thing: for many women, motherhood is everything. It brings them joy, purpose, identity. But for others—like me—it’s a chapter, not the whole book.

I started therapy six months after giving birth. I told my therapist, “I feel guilty for wanting more.” And she said something I’ll never forget:

“Wanting more doesn’t make you ungrateful. It makes you human.”

Slowly, I started reclaiming pieces of myself. I wrote during nap times. I asked for help instead of trying to be a hero. I stopped pretending I was okay when I wasn’t. I carved out moments—tiny, defiant ones—just for me.

I joined a local writing group. I went for solo walks. I spoke honestly with my partner about needing space to breathe, to think, to exist outside of being ‘Mom.’

It didn’t make me love my child any less. If anything, it made me love him more deeply—because I could love him as a whole person, not just a depleted one.

Motherhood didn’t complete me. But it cracked me open. It made me question everything. It burned away the expectations I didn’t even know I had and forced me to build something more honest in their place.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see the same woman I was before. But I see someone stronger. Someone who knows that love can coexist with longing. That joy can sit right beside sadness. That being a mother doesn’t have to mean erasing who you are—it can mean discovering who you’re truly meant to be.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re the only mom who’s ever felt this way—you’re not.

You are not broken.

You are just becoming.