Becoming Her: A Year of Evolution at 38

Time waits for no one.

It’s moving faster than I can keep up with, and the pace of it all makes me deeply aware of how fleeting life really is. My children are growing before my eyes, and with each passing year, life shifts in ways I can’t always prepare for. One minute, I’m holding their tiny hands, tying their shoes, answering their endless questions — and the next, I’m watching them grow into independent, thoughtful little humans with their own opinions, dreams, and inner worlds.

There’s an ache I carry quietly — the ache of knowing they won’t always need me the way they do now. That one day, they’ll go out into the world and create lives of their own, as they should. I want that for them, and I’ll cheer them on with everything I have. But the idea of them no longer being by my side, of waking up to a house that isn’t filled with their laughter or footsteps, stirs something deep in me.

I’m so proud of who they’re becoming — kind, curious, resilient — and I know that’s a reflection of the love and stability I’ve worked so hard to give them. But at the same time, I wonder who I’ll be when they begin to spread their wings. They’ve been my whole world since the moment I became a mother. My identity, my purpose, my heartbeat. And as they grow, I’m learning to redefine my own place in the world too — not just as their mother, but as a woman finding her own path, again.

When it comes to love and relationships… I feel uncertain.

Every relationship I’ve had has ended, and while each one taught me something valuable — about myself, about others, about boundaries and expectations — the trail of heartbreak has also left a mark. Over time, I’ve built walls to protect myself, and though they’ve kept me safe, they’ve also made it harder to let anyone truly in. I’ve been on my own for so long now that the idea of being emotionally vulnerable with someone again feels almost foreign, like trying to speak a language I haven’t used in years.

It’s not that I’ve given up on love — not at all. I still believe in it. I still long for that feeling of being truly seen, understood, and cared for. I know I have a big heart and an immense capacity to love deeply and fiercely. But the truth is, I don’t know if that love will ever find the right place to land. I don’t know if there’s someone out there who will meet me where I am, without needing me to shrink, change, or compromise the life I’ve worked so hard to build.

Sometimes I wonder if that kind of connection is still in the cards for me. Not in a hopeless way, but in a quiet, realistic way — a recognition that life doesn’t always unfold the way we imagined. And maybe that’s okay, too. Maybe love, for me, looks different now. Maybe it’s in the way I love myself, my children, my life, and the moments I’ve fought so hard to create.

And yet, despite all of that, I’m proud — so incredibly proud — of the life I’ve built from the ground up. I’ve created a safe, loving, and peaceful home for my children. A home without slammed doors or shouting. A home without fear or anxiety. A home where they are free to be exactly who they are, and to know that they will be loved unconditionally.

It hasn’t been easy. There were moments when the weight of it all felt impossible — the financial strain, the emotional exhaustion, the lonely nights where I questioned if I was doing enough, being enough. But I kept going. For them. For me. For the life I knew we deserved.

Now, I look around and see the joy on their faces, the calm in their spirits, the lightness in their laughter — and I know I gave them what I never had. I gave them stability, safety, and space to grow without fear. They don’t carry the weight of emotional chaos. They aren’t shrinking themselves to avoid conflict. They are rooted in love, and that is my greatest accomplishment.

But I’m not done. There’s still so much more I want to give them. I want to show them what strength looks like, what kindness does, what it means to chase dreams and bounce back from setbacks. I want to teach them that love isn’t something we have to earn — it’s something we deserve just by being ourselves. I want them to know that even when the world feels hard, our home will always be their soft place to land.

This year, I came home to a version of myself I hadn’t met before — someone more grounded, more honest, more whole. Sobriety was the doorway to that discovery. It showed me what it really means to be present. To sit with my feelings instead of escaping them. To show up for my life — not blurred around the edges, but fully here.

For so long, alcohol was the background noise to everything — celebrations, stress, connection, even loneliness. I never realised how much space it took up until I cleared it out. Now, in the quiet that’s been left behind, I’m learning to listen to myself. To trust myself. And to be okay with just being me.

Gratitude has walked beside me in that process. It’s taught me to pay attention to the smallest, quietest moments — the kind that slip by when we’re distracted or rushing. A soft “I love you” from one of my kids. A deep breath on a hard day. A sunset that makes me pause. These moments are everything. They are the real markers of a good life.

But beneath all of this growth is a truth I’ve only recently been brave enough to face: for most of my life, I haven’t believed I was enough. I’ve chased perfection, compared myself relentlessly, and measured my worth by impossible standards. And even though I’ve accomplished so much, that voice in my head often whispered, “It’s still not enough.”

I’m learning to silence that voice. To rewrite that story. I don’t want to pass it on.

Because the truth is, I am enough. And more importantly, so are my children. I want them to grow up rooted in that truth. I want them to know that their value isn’t based on achievements or appearance or how the world sees them. It’s in their kindness. Their empathy. The way they show up for others. I want them to feel secure in who they are — not because they fit a mold, but because they know they were never meant to.

Sometimes, I wonder if people really like me — not in a self-pitying way, but as a quiet thought I revisit from time to time. I’m not naturally social. I prefer solitude, stillness, and the comfort of my own space. I’m not the loudest in the room, not the most outgoing. I observe more than I speak, and I often find myself standing just outside the crowd, unsure if I even want to step in.

Part of that is because I feel things deeply — sometimes too deeply — but I rarely show it. I’ve learned to keep those emotions tucked in, protected. Vulnerability doesn’t come easy, and over time, I’ve grown used to carrying things quietly. That depth, though, means when I care, I really care. I love hard. I give the people I love everything I have — my time, my energy, my heart — and sometimes, that intensity can feel like too much, even for me.

Loving like that takes a lot out of me, which is why I protect my energy so fiercely. Most of it goes into my home, into my children, into the world we’re building together. That level of emotional investment leaves little space for surface-level connections, and maybe that’s why my circle is small and why I sometimes feel like I’m on the outside looking in.

But I’ve come to a place of peace with that. I’d rather love deeply than not at all. I’d rather feel fully than live behind a mask. And while not everyone may see or understand me, the ones who do — the ones who feel my heart without needing me to explain — those are the ones who matter.

This journey isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard. It’s about owning the parts of yourself that you’ve been afraid to acknowledge. The messy, imperfect, raw parts — because they are just as real as the victories. And in that truth, there’s power. A quiet power that comes from knowing you’re doing the best you can with what you’ve got, and that’s enough.

Time keeps moving forward, and I can’t control it. But I can choose how I live in it. I can choose to keep growing, to keep learning, to keep fighting for the life I want — for myself and for my children. And I know that as long as I do that, I’m creating something that’s worth every sacrifice, every struggle.

I might not have all the answers, and maybe I never will. But what I do have is the courage to keep going.

And that’s more than enough.