When I was a child, I envisioned myself as the woman who effortlessly remembered everyone’s birthdays. I’d be the one sending anniversary cards that arrived precisely on time, mailing thank-you notes within a reasonable timeframe, and writing “just thinking of you” letters on beautiful stationery for no reason at all. I could never have imagined becoming the woman whose thank-you notes are often four months late and who just barely manages to gift wedding presents within the customary one-year limit.
I thought I’d be the kind of mom who whips up chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and slips sweet notes into my kids’ lunchboxes, packed with healthy, balanced meals. Instead, I find myself purchasing overpriced yogurt tubes and calling them a meal, or allowing my son to have plain pasta with cheese for dinner four nights straight.
My dreams included easy, blissful pregnancies, where I’d relish every moment and look forward to filling my home with four—maybe even five—children, just like the lively sitcom families I grew up watching. I never anticipated becoming the woman who lost her first baby, who occasionally dreams of trading her pregnant body for a glass of red wine, or who has seriously considered stopping at two kids because, honestly, they’re more expensive than I ever thought possible.
I imagined my home would be tidy more often than not, with fresh laundry folded each night and no blackened feet from walking barefoot on my own kitchen floor. I’m still surprised that I haven’t transformed into my own mother, whose place resembles a pristine museum compared to my clutter-filled abode.
I believed I’d always feel comfortable in my own skin, free from the need to pinch, scrutinize, or cover up out of shame. I certainly didn’t foresee spending much of my early 20s battling an eating disorder that stripped me of all self-love and took nearly a decade to recover from.
With so many lofty aspirations of the woman I would become, I held onto these images as I navigated my late teens and early 20s, convinced I had ample time to make them a reality. As I entered my mid-20s, I felt the responsibility of adulthood land on my shoulders. I was now the head of my own household; it was time to bring meaningful gifts to family gatherings instead of just adding my name to my parents’ cards and contributing their famous buffalo chicken dip.
In my late 20s, as I welcomed one baby and prepared for another, it finally hit me: perhaps this is simply who I was meant to be. Maybe I never had it in me to be the organic-lunch-packing, card-sending, body-loving woman I always imagined. Maybe it was time to release the vision of who I thought I should be and embrace the woman I actually am.
These days, I’m much happier, having finally let go of the ghost of that idealized woman who haunted me throughout my adult life. I now recognize my own good qualities, even if timely thank-you notes and dust-free ceiling fans aren’t among them. For the first time, I’m content with who I am, even if she’s quite different from the woman I once thought I’d become.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Sarah Thompson shares her journey from the idealized visions of womanhood she held in her youth to the acceptance of her authentic self. Through candid anecdotes about motherhood, personal struggles, and home life, she highlights the importance of embracing who we truly are, rather than who we think we should be.