When I was a child, I envisioned myself as a woman who effortlessly remembered birthdays and anniversaries. I imagined sending out cards that arrived precisely on time, writing thank-you notes in a timely manner, and surprising friends with “just thinking of you” letters adorned with charming stationery. Instead, I find myself the woman whose thank you notes are often delayed by months and whose wedding gifts sometimes extend to the very limit of the customary one-year mark.
I pictured myself as the kind of mother who would whip up chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and lovingly tuck notes into my children’s lunchboxes filled with wholesome meals. What I didn’t anticipate was becoming the mom who occasionally resorts to overpriced yogurt tubes as a meal and allows her son to eat plain pasta sprinkled with cheese for days on end.
I dreamed of having smooth, uncomplicated pregnancies, cherishing every moment and welcoming a house full of children—maybe even four or five—just like the lovable, chaotic families from my favorite sitcoms. Little did I know I would experience the heartache of losing my first child, long for a glass of wine during my pregnancies, and seriously consider stopping at two kids because, truth be told, they are far more expensive than I ever imagined.
I thought I would be the woman whose home was consistently tidy, whose laundry was folded nightly, and whose feet wouldn’t turn black after walking barefoot on the kitchen floor. It’s a genuine surprise that I haven’t transformed into my mother, whose house resembles a pristine museum compared to my cluttered, chaotic space.
I envisioned being comfortable in my own skin, free from the critiquing and covering up that often accompanies insecurity. I never expected to spend a significant portion of my early adulthood battling an eating disorder that stripped away my self-love and took years to recover from.
In my late teens and early twenties, I held on to these grand visions of the woman I would eventually become, believing I had ample time to turn them into reality. As I entered my mid-twenties, I felt the shift of adulthood as I took over my own household. It was time to contribute meaningful gifts at family gatherings, rather than just signing my name to my parents’ cards or relying on their buffalo chicken dip as our offering.
By 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 wasn’t destined to be the organic-lunch-packing, birthday card-sending, pregnancy-loving woman I had always imagined. Perhaps I needed to embrace the reality of who I am, letting go of the idealized version of myself.
These days, I find happiness in accepting the woman I truly am, relinquishing the ghost of the woman I thought I would be. I recognize that I possess many admirable qualities, even if timely thank-you notes and dusting my fan blades aren’t among them. For the first time, I am at peace with the woman I’ve become, despite how different she is from my youthful expectations.
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In summary, it’s okay to release the image of who we thought we should be and embrace the reality of who we are. Understanding this can lead to greater happiness and self-acceptance.
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