“I Forgot Who I Was, Then Found Her Again”

There was a time

when I answered

to one name—

mine.

Before “mom,”

before the calendar filled

with other people’s needs,

before sleep

became a memory

and quiet

became a luxury.

There was a time

when I danced

just because,

when I stayed out

past reason,

when my body

was mine

and not a map

for tiny hands.

I don’t mourn it.

But I do remember.

Somewhere between

bedtime routines

and birthday parties,

I began to blur.

Who was I

without the checklist?

Without the diaper bag?

Without the title?

And then—

somewhere unexpected—

I found her.

In a bookstore aisle.

In a song I hadn’t heard

since I was 20.

In the mirror,

on a random Tuesday,

when I put on lipstick

for no one but me.

I found her

when I said “no”

and didn’t explain.

When I asked for space

without guilt.

When I remembered

what made me laugh.

I am not who I was.

But I am still me.

Just…

wider.

Deeper.

Worn in the best ways.

Parenting didn’t erase me—

it unfolded me.

Now I carry two names:

the one they call me,

and the one I return to

when the house is quiet

and my own heart

starts speaking again.