parenting – Yzagada

They say that after childbirth, it takes six months for your internal wounds to heal, twelve months to stop Googling “Is this normal?”, two years for hormones to stop throwing surprise parties, and up to five years for a woman to rediscover herself.

Self, are we there yet? Because honestly, it feels like I’m still stranded at the hormonal rollercoaster pit stop, sipping a lukewarm coffee that’s been microwaved four times, rocking unbrushed hair, and wondering where I left my to-do list–or my sanity.

These days, my “big wins” don’t come with applause or confetti. They come with dry underwear after a run. And let’s be clear, this only happens after I’ve gone to the bathroom at least five times, because postpartum paranoia is real and my pelvic floor is now mostly vibes. Then there’s the rare and magical moment when I get carded at a liquor store. Not because I actually look young, but because I finally got eight uninterrupted hours of sleep and remembered to put on moisturizer. The bar is low. And yet, these are my Olympic moments–in yoga pants.

Rediscovery, I’ve learned, doesn’t look like spa days and silent retreats (although yes to both, please). It is more like laughing at your own chaos, reclaiming your quirks, and celebrating the wildly unglamorous victories of womanhood after motherhood. I know I might not be “back” yet, at least I believe I’ve found the GPS to wherever forward is.

Some days, trying to find myself again feels like doing a jigsaw puzzle made of five different sets–and half of them are sticky with apple juice, Nutella and dog hair. I catch myself wondering: who was I before all this? Before my bag became a mobile snack bar for a tiny human? Before my search history turned into “toddler only eats crackers and air” and “how to get slime out of the couch“?

There are brief, beautiful flashes of the woman I used to know. She shows up when I sing unhinged in the shower. When I dance in the kitchen with a mimosa and questionable rhythm. When I put mascara just because, and suddenly remember, oh hey–I like her!

But there’s also a new woman forming. Not a reboot of the old me, but a wiser, weirder, stronger version. She’s wildly resourceful and can multitask with the precision of a bomb technician. She knows how to feel deeply and fiercely–and still laugh when the days goes sideways.

She’s the kind of woman who can break down over a missing sock and then rally to make a lunch plate that can satisfy the palate of the pickiest eater on earth. Who can recite “Skibidi What or Tung Tung Tung Sahur” from memory while mentally listing groceries and answering emails. Who survives not just on caffeine, but on grit, grace, and the soft weight of a toddler’s sleepy head resting on her chest.

So no, I am not fully “back.” I’m not even sure I want to go back. I would like to think I am building forward, remixing someone new. Someone stitched together from getting lost, a lot of lows, and soft moments. A woman who still forgets where she put her keys but remembers where she put her joy.

And that feels like something worth running toward—even if I still pee a little when I do.

Somewhere in the haze of snack crumbs and toddler ASMR, I’ve realized that motherhood hasn’t erased me—it’s rewritten me. In places I didn’t expect. In words I didn’t know I had. And in strength I never imagined possible.

Hello, Self. It’s been awhile. But I think I’m starting to recognize you again. Not as you were. But as you are now—braver, softer, louder in some ways, quieter in others.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful version of you yet.

Sweet Child,

There’s something I need to say—something that has weighed heavily in my heart since the day I watched you, backpack too large for your small frame, eyes searching mine as I walked away from your schoolyard. I owe you an apology—not just for that moment, or the attempts that followed, but for the pressure I placed on your little shoulders far too soon.

I believed I was doing the right thing. They say, “the earlier, the better.” Driven by societal and economic pressures and caught in the chaos of adult responsibilities, I lost sight of what truly mattered. I forgot about you—your feelings, your readiness, your childhood.

You are still so wonderfully little, just beginning to explore a world beyond our home. Yet, I thrust you into a whirlwind of schedules that moved too fast for your gentle pace.

When you cried at drop-off, clinging to my leg, I told myself it was normal. I silenced the small voice within that said it might not be the right time. I convinced myself we just needed to push through. In doing so, I failed to listen to you. Instead, I paid heed to the noise around me—the expectations, the comparisons, the timelines.

I thought enrolling you in school would benefit you, help you grow. I imagined it would open doors for you–to learning, socializing, to discovering your own little place and was an opportunity for you to flourish. But I forgot that growth does not mean hurrying. It’s not rushing through milestones or checking boxes before you’re ready. Growth can be slow and quiet sometimes. It takes root in comfort, in safety, in feeling understood.

You weren’t ready for school, and you tried to tell me in countless ways—through tears, questions, confusion, and even resistance. I refused to listen then. But I hear you now, and I want to do better. I see how much more you needed my arms than a desk. You needed more time, more of me.

I’m learning to quiet the voices that rush us and to listen more closely to you. I see your innocence and recognize your unique pace. Childhood is a sacred, fleeting time, and I will try to protect it for you.

You don’t have to be big just yet. There’s no race to win, no rush to grow. Let’s slow down for now. We’ll find our rhythm again—slowly, gently. And when you’re ready, I know you’ll step into the world with confidence, curiosity, and joy.

You have all the time in the world to learn behind a desk and socialize with wonderful people. But right now, your most important lessons are found in the puddles you jump in, the crows and ducks you count, and the hugs you give and receive.

Let’s cherish the messy toys, the endless questions, the slow mornings and the way your hand fits so perfectly in mine. These are the days that shape us both. As I learn to follow your lead, I promise to honor your childhood not as something to rush through, but as something to treasure–one unhurried day at a time.

Always with love,

Mommy