When I was younger, I envisioned myself as a woman who effortlessly remembered everyone’s birthdays, a person who sent anniversary cards right on time and expressed gratitude through prompt thank-you notes. I imagined penning cheerful “just because” letters on elegant stationery. Instead, I find myself as the woman who sends thank-you notes four months late and stretches out gift-giving to the very limit of the customary one-year period.
I thought I’d be the kind of mother who made homemade chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast while including wholesome, balanced lunches with delightful notes tucked inside. Instead, I’m the one who often resorts to overpriced yogurt tubes, marketing them as meals, and lets my child have plain pasta with cheese for dinner night after night.
I pictured a life with smooth, joyful pregnancies, excited to fill my home with four or five children, reflecting the chaotic yet loving families from my favorite sitcoms. I never anticipated losing my first baby, wishing for a glass of red wine during pregnancy, or considering stopping at two children due to the unexpected financial burdens they bring.
I imagined a tidy home where clothes were folded each night and I could walk barefoot without blackening my feet on the kitchen floor. I’m still surprised I haven’t transformed into my own mother, whose house resembles a pristine museum compared to my cluttered, makeshift sanctuary.
I thought I would be comfortable in my own skin, free from insecurities and the need to hide. I certainly didn’t foresee spending much of my early adulthood battling an eating disorder that stripped me of self-love and took years to overcome.
I had grand aspirations of the woman I would become, and as I navigated my late teens and twenties, I believed I had ample time to make those dreams a reality. In my mid-twenties, as the responsibilities of adulthood began to settle in, I realized it was time to contribute meaningfully to family gatherings rather than relying on my parents.
As I approached my late twenties, with one child and another on the way, a realization struck me: perhaps this is simply who I was meant to be. Maybe I was never intended to be the organic-lunch-packing, card-sending, body-loving ideal I once envisioned. Perhaps letting go of the woman I thought I should be was essential to fully embracing and respecting the woman I truly am.
These days, I find happiness in accepting my reality, even if it diverges significantly from my earlier aspirations. I recognize that I possess many admirable qualities, even if timely thank-you notes and a dust-free home are not among them. For the first time, I am content with the woman I have become, even if she is a far cry from the person I once thought I would be.
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In summary, life often takes unexpected turns, and our self-perceptions can shift dramatically over time. Embracing who we are, rather than who we thought we would be, can lead to greater happiness and fulfillment.