When I was younger, I imagined I would grow up to be the type of woman who could effortlessly recall everyone’s birthdays. I pictured myself as the one who sends anniversary cards right on the dot, who mails thank-you notes promptly, and who writes “just because” letters on beautiful stationery. Instead, I’ve become the woman whose thank-you notes often arrive four months late and who stretches the timeline for wedding gifts to the maximum year mark.
I thought I would be the mom who whips up homemade chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and sneaks sweet notes into my kids’ lunchboxes filled with balanced, healthy meals. Instead, I find myself buying expensive yogurt tubes and calling them dinner or letting my son eat plain pasta with cheese for days on end without a second thought.
I envisioned a future where I would have smooth, delightful pregnancies, eagerly waiting to fill my home with four or five little ones, just like the lively TV families I adored. I never anticipated being the woman who lost her first baby, or who sometimes dreams of trading her pregnant body for a nice glass of red wine. I never thought I would contemplate stopping at two kids because, honestly, they come with a price tag I didn’t fully comprehend.
I always thought my home would be tidy more often than not, with clothes folded each night and a floor that wouldn’t leave my feet dirty when I walked barefoot. It’s funny how I’ve yet to turn into my own mom, whose house looks like a pristine museum compared to my cluttered space.
I pictured myself as someone completely comfortable in her own skin, who wouldn’t scrutinize her body or feel the need to hide it out of embarrassment. I never expected to spend most of my early 20s grappling with an eating disorder that drained my self-esteem and took years to recover from.
I held so many lofty dreams of the woman I would become. These visions accompanied me throughout my late teens and early twenties; I thought I had plenty of time to make them real. As I entered my mid-20s, I felt the shift of adulthood as I took charge of my own household—no more letting my parents handle everything, time to bring thoughtful gifts to family gatherings instead of just signing their cards.
It wasn’t until my late 20s, with one child and another on the way, that I finally accepted this might be who I was meant to be. Maybe I wasn’t destined to be that woman who packs organic lunches or sends perfectly timed cards. Perhaps I needed to let go of the version of myself I thought I’d become in order to truly appreciate the woman I am today.
Now, I’m much happier having finally released the ghost of the woman who haunted me for years. I’ve come to terms with my strengths, even if they don’t include timely thank you notes or a dust-free fan.
For the first time ever, I’m content with who I am, even if she’s quite different from the woman I once envisioned.
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