I Didn’t Lose Myself in Motherhood. I Learned That I Needed to Find Myself.
My son is 13. His brother was born when he was nearly five. Until then, it was just the two of us—a team of two. Honestly, it took me a while to wrap my head around the fact that we had become a trio, rather than a duo with an appendage.
His dad worked a lot, and we spent nearly all of our hours together. I rarely went anywhere without him. He even came to all my infertility appointments. We were tight.
And he was fun. SO much fun. He wore costumes to Target way longer than any typical kid would. He asked me to paint his face just for fun on a random Tuesday. He knew everything about every animal on the planet and had big plans for his life—to move to Thailand to save gibbons. He loved gibbons.
He was funny, wild, curious. The kid didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him.
He wanted to go to public kindergarten, and I sent him, but he hated it. He hated that they couldn’t play, that the shades were always down, and that the behavior charts felt mean. Not because he was ever “clipped down” or disciplined unfairly, but because he hated the idea of any child being treated like that.
So I sent him to a Montessori school for grades 1 and 2. I bartered with the school—I taught the kids yoga classes, and he got an incredible education. I loved that school. But then they relocated to a space that resembled the X-Mansion, and I just couldn’t stomach sending him to school with a bunch of rich white kids anymore.
We switched to homeschooling, and for the next three years, we went on incredible adventures together with a community of like-minded, progressive families who valued curiosity, kindness, and emotional health. It was fantastic.
And then he asked to go to middle school.
He started middle school with rainbow-colored hair—a choice that made me nervous as shit. I worried about whether I should warn him about how kids could be mean. He had always been in safe circles, mostly considered “weird” by the outside world, and he believed he was “normal.”
I decided to give the kids at school the benefit of the doubt. I wanted him to believe—for as long as possible—that the world was kind and safe. So I gave no warnings. I just told him, “I love you.”
This tiny little person, rainbow hair and all, asked to go to middle school—the school I didn’t want to send him to. But I trusted him. I wanted him to have the experience he desired.
I was scared. Heartbroken. Excited. All at once.
He stepped out of my car that first day and walked into that school without looking back—the same way he had when he went to preschool for the first time. Brave. Confident. So much courage in such a small body.
Or so I thought.
Because at some point, I lost him.
I mean, he’s still here. He’s still incredible, and I’m proud of him every day. But he’s not the same.
And I realized what that really means: he’s not the same as me.
He’s not like me anymore. He cares so deeply about fitting in, about playing the part of the “cool kid,” that I don’t know who he actually is anymore. (In the same way that I struggle every day to figure out who I actually am.)
I get it—this happens to all kids eventually. But it feels like watching him carefully choose costumes, masks, and roles for a performance. And I hate it. I hate it because I can’t tell if this is who he really is, or if it’s the world breaking him down, molding him into what it thinks he should be. Just like it did to me.
My biggest fear has always been that the world would break his spirit—like it broke mine. And here I am, watching it happen in front of my face.
I don’t like it.
I used to teach middle school and felt safe and seen. With those kids, I could be myself. Dorky. Weird. Loud. Creative. And most of them thought I was pretty awesome. Even the “cool” kids.
I spent most of my life pretending. Hiding my weirdness. Staying quiet. Reacting the way I should. Masking.
And then I had kids, and it was amazing. Two people I loved more than anything loved me exactly as I was—loud, weird, messy, emotional, and chaotic. They loved me unmasked. They loved it. And I loved being their mom because I could finally be me.
Until recently.
I’ve noticed myself masking again. Around him. Around his friends. I censor myself to avoid being embarrassed or judged. And I couldn’t figure out why it was hitting me so hard.
And then I realized: it’s giving me flashbacks. Insights into my life before I wore masks. Reminders of how it felt as a kid when I realized I didn’t fit.
This morning, I talked to him. Through teary eyes, I told him everything I just told you.
I want to be clear: this isn’t about him growing up. It’s about me. About my own journey of self-discovery that started the day I became a mom.
I had no idea who I was before that. I thought I did. But I didn’t.
And now, finally, it’s starting to make sense.
It’s heavy. Strange. Scary even—to realize that I’ve been pretending my whole life, and now, one of the few people who truly sees me, now wishes I would put my mask on.
I’m Tiff, The Placenta Girl and I’m dedicated to helping new and expecting moms navigate the challenges of the fourth trimester with confidence and support. Curious about how placenta pills can support your recovery, energy, and overall postpartum experience? Click here to learn more and see how placenta encapsulation can help you feel stronger, calmer, and more prepared.
