The Me I Forgot

There was a version of me

before this.

Before diapers and night feeds,

before tiny shoes lined up by the door,

before I learned how to pack a lunch

with one hand

while holding a body in the other.

She had dreams that didn’t fit in a baby bag.

She slept in on Sundays.

She wore earrings just because.

She laughed without checking the clock.

I miss her.

Not because I want to go back—

but because I never got to say goodbye.

Motherhood didn’t erase me.

But it rewrote me in a language

I didn’t yet understand.

And for a while,

I spoke only in milk and worry,

in lullabies and logistics.

I forgot that I liked thunderstorms.

That I wrote poems on napkins.

That I danced while brushing my teeth.

I became Mom so fully

I forgot the girl who came first.

But slowly—

she’s returning.

In the way I hum a song I used to love

while folding their clothes.

In the quiet 20 minutes after bedtime,

when I pick up a book

instead of a chore.

In the mirror,

when I wear lipstick

just for the woman

still hiding beneath the tired.

She never left.

She just waited

until I remembered

she was part of this too.