Last weekend, I found myself swept up in the excitement of a reunion with friends, fueled by festive drinks, questionable snacks, and delicious cookies that I now can’t believe I lived without. Picture this: over a hundred of my closest pals gathered together, singing and dancing like we were still carefree college kids. This magical reunion happens every five years, and this time we celebrated the 35th anniversary of our beloved a cappella group. Yes, you can chuckle at the nerdy charm of a cappella, but for me, it has always been a vital part of who I am.
From age four to twenty-two, singing was my passion. I intentionally chose a university known for its vibrant music scene over its Greek life. The friendships I formed in college, especially with those fellow singers, have always held a special place in my heart. There’s something incredibly bonding about traveling the country in a cramped van with 17 others, harmonizing and laughing along the way.
At the reunion, it felt like no time had passed, despite the fact that we hadn’t all been together in 15 years. We shared stories, indulged in food and drinks, and yes, we sang with abandon. The highlight was a grand concert that left us all buzzing with nostalgia before we returned to our adult lives.
I wish I could say that my return home reinvigorated me for the parenting challenges ahead, like helping my son locate “Morton”—a Lego figure with a helmet. Instead, I found myself feeling a bit melancholic. For those few days, I had reconnected with a part of myself that had faded since becoming a mom. Now, I was back to simply being “Mom,” where my singing has been reduced to lullabies and shower tunes. It’s not just the music I miss; it’s the deep conversations and spontaneous laughter that came with those friendships—experiences that are hard to replicate while waiting in the kindergarten drop-off line.
As I put on my cognitive-behavioral psychologist hat, I remind myself that I can reclaim that joyful part of me. “Just start singing again!” I tell myself. But the reality is that my current life doesn’t easily allow for spontaneous gigs or late-night laughter with friends. Staying up late would mean facing the consequences of early morning wake-ups from my two sons, who also enjoy singing at the crack of dawn. While community theater sounds appealing, rehearsals are usually scheduled for the evenings—time that I want to spend with my kids.
I know I am not alone in feeling a sense of loss for my pre-parent self. Every parent sacrifices a piece of their identity when they take on the role of caregiver. It’s not just about losing time; it’s about losing energy too. If I tried singing again (and let’s be honest, my voice at the reunion was a bit rough), I’d have to practice regularly. But when would I fit that in? By the time the kids are in bed, I often find myself too exhausted to focus on anything other than sleep.
For now, singing isn’t a priority in my life, and I begrudgingly acknowledge that. It’s a bittersweet realization—I love being a parent, but I also mourn the parts of myself that have been sidelined. I truly miss singing, yet I also cherish the two wonderful children who greet me each morning, ready to start the day with their own lively tunes.
Who knows what the future holds? In five years, my kids will be ten and seven. Perhaps then I can dip my toes back into the world of theater or even start a band with a neighbor. The idea of forming a group with fellow moms, maybe called “The Mom-tones,” sounds like a fun adventure waiting to happen.
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In summary, while motherhood has brought incredible joy, it has also meant relinquishing parts of my former self. I’m hopeful for the day when I can reclaim my love for singing and reconnect with my passions.