Not glowing.
Not emerging from motherhood as some improved, perfectly regulated version of myself.
Still tired.
Still interrupted.
Still occasionally desperate to stare at a wall while nobody touched me or asked me anything.
But not empty.
Not ruined.
Not intellectually dead.
Depleted is not the same as gone.
That became the sentence I carried with me.
On the days when I could read, I read.
On the days when I could think, I thought.
On the days when all I could do was manage snacks and crises, I stopped pretending that managing snacks and crises required no mental energy simply because nobody gives you a certificate for doing it.
I still miss having more of myself available to become someone.
That part remains true.
But I no longer look at the exhausted woman reflected in the freezer door and assume her story is over.
Sometimes she is not failing to grow.
Sometimes every available piece of her is already being used.
And sometimes the first step toward getting herself back is not another goal, another routine, another demand, or another cheerful instruction to invest in herself.
Sometimes it is finally recognizing where the investment has already been going.
