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Am I Still the Same Woman I Once Was?
I have a driver’s license photo that many women dream about. It was captured just two days after my Hawaiian honeymoon. You can almost feel the tropical breeze and smell the coconut on my sun-kissed skin. My eyes are bright, having soaked in stunning sunsets, and my smile is wide and carefree from a week of pure love. The winds from Waimea Canyon still seem to dance through my hair, and even my neck appears longer, stretching toward the future and all its possibilities. I recall putting on a belt that day because my favorite jeans were too loose—what an inconvenience!
Fast forward five years, and I now find myself at the airport security line, hunched over with a car-seat carrier that feels like a small shed on my back. One hand drags a suitcase that wobbles precariously, while the other grips my little boy, who is kneeling on the floor and looking up at me with a look of utter discontent. A large bag filled with snacks, crayons, and airplane toys sways across my middle like an udder, and the bags under my eyes tell their own story. I have a nagging feeling that my shirt has hiked up above my midriff, but there’s not much I can do about it now.
It had been quite the journey. Traveling solo with my 3-year-old son to visit friends in New York was no easy feat. Somewhere between Milwaukee and Detroit, my son decided to unleash his inner monster. People had warned me about “phases” like the Terrible Threes, and let me tell you, it hit hard on American Airlines Flight 312. After three days filled with tears, sleepless nights, and sheer desperation, all I wanted was to go home.
As we approached the TSA agent, a small flicker of relief washed over me. We were almost through. I handed him two crumpled boarding passes and my shiny driver’s license. He looked at the photo, then back at me, tilting his head as if he were trying to fit the pieces together. After a moment, he scribbled something on our boarding passes and said, “Close enough.”
“Close enough?!” I exclaimed, snatching the tickets from him, my indignation bubbling over. I tossed my head in a dramatic flair, hoping my tangled hair might hit him in the face.
Somehow, we made it onto our final flight without any further incidents. On the plane, my son was finally settled, scribbling away in his coloring books. I sat there, gazing at my driver’s license. That carefree, glowing face seemed so distant. Did I really look that different? Years of sleepless nights had taken their toll—my hair was shorter, my skin paler, and my face rounder. But it was more than just the surface; the difference was coming from within. In that photo, I radiated genuine happiness, which gave me that special glow—along with the mai tais, of course. On that day at the Buffalo airport, however, my unhappiness was evident.
I glanced at my little boy beside me. He was concentrating hard on his purple crayon, then looked up and flashed a sweet smile. What does he see when he looks at me? I might never return to Hawaii, and I will undoubtedly have my share of challenging days. But I refuse to let anyone mistake me for the woman in that TSA line again. I have so much to be grateful for, plenty of inner glow left, and an outrageously priced new eye cream to help with my appearance.
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In summary, while life may change us in ways we don’t expect, our essence remains. Embracing the chaos of motherhood and remembering the joy we once felt is vital. Our experiences shape us, but they don’t define us.