Last weekend, amidst a whirlwind of cheap punch, questionable nachos, and the discovery of something heavenly called Insomnia Cookies (seriously, where have these been hiding?), I found myself laughing and dancing with over a hundred of my closest friends. It’s a rare occasion, occurring every five years, when we gather to celebrate milestones from our days in college, specifically the 35th anniversary of our beloved a cappella group. Yes, I know what you’re thinking—singing in harmony might seem a bit nerdy, but for me, it’s been an essential part of who I am.
From the age of four until I graduated at 22, singing consumed my life. I even chose my university based on its vibrant singing culture, which I found far more appealing than its Greek life. Those college friends, even the ones living thousands of miles away, are some of the most cherished people in my life. There’s a unique bond that forms when you spend countless hours crammed in a van with 17 other passionate singers, traveling across the country.
This past weekend felt like time stood still as we resumed our connection from 15 years ago, before any of us embraced the roles of parents or took on “real” jobs. We reminisced, indulged in food and drink, and yes, we sang our hearts out. The highlight was a massive reunion concert, after which we parted ways to return to our busy adult lives.
I wish I could say that my return home left me rejuvenated, ready to tackle the next parenting hurdle—like helping my son locate “Morton,” a Lego figure that seems to have mysteriously vanished. Instead, I came home feeling a wave of sadness. For those fleeting three days, I had reconnected with a vibrant part of myself that has faded since becoming a mother. Now, I’m back to being just “Mom.” The only tunes I find myself singing are lullabies and shower songs. I miss the deep friendships, the late-night conversations, and the uncontrollable laughter that defined my college years. Unfortunately, conversations with other moms in the kindergarten drop-off line just don’t quite match that level of connection.
If I put on my cognitive-behavioral psychologist hat, I’d tell myself, “You can reignite that passion! Just start singing again!” But life right now makes it tough. I can’t just drop everything for an impromptu performance. If I stay up late laughing with friends, I pay the price the next morning when my kids wake up singing at the crack of dawn. Sure, I dream of joining community theater, but rehearsals usually conflict with my time with the kids.
I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. Many parents grapple with sacrificing parts of their identities when they step into parenthood. It’s not just about losing time for hobbies; it’s also about the energy that seems to evaporate. I’ve tried singing again (let’s be honest, my voice sounded like a wounded animal), but practicing is a challenge. By the end of the day, I’m usually too exhausted to even think about it.
For now, singing will have to wait. It’s frustrating to deprioritize something I love, but I also understand that it’s completely possible to love being a parent while missing pieces of my pre-parent self. I feel a deep sense of loss about not singing anymore, yet I find joy in the two beautiful children who greet me with their morning songs.
Who knows? In five years, my kids will be 10 and 7. Maybe then I can audition for community theater or even start a band with a neighbor. Perhaps I could encourage some fellow moms to join me in an a cappella group—how does “The Mom-tones” sound? Northern New Jersey, prepare yourselves!
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In summary, reconnecting with friends from my past has illuminated the parts of myself that I’ve set aside since becoming a mother. While I may be missing out on singing, I know there’s always a chance to rediscover that passion in the future.