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I became invisible on May 13, 2013. The memory is etched in my mind. I was lying in a semi-private hospital room, recovering from an emergency C-section while chaos unfolded around me. Family members were on the phone, boisterously announcing the arrival of my twins, Lily and Ava. Nurses entered frequently to draw blood and check on my recovery, regardless of whether I was awake or asleep. Friends popped in to meet the babies, while I struggled to pump milk, half-naked and overwhelmed. Estranged relatives showed up, having seen the news on social media.
I had been thrust from the comfort of my labor room to a stark surgical space, where my babies were taken from me. Afterward, I was wheeled into a bland recovery room, left to drift in and out of consciousness, waiting for news about my children’s health and yearning for water — only to be told, “not yet.” Eventually, I settled into a room with a flimsy curtain for privacy, yet my solitude was shattered by constant interruptions. There was no privacy, no acknowledgment of my physical and emotional healing, and no consideration of my desires.
Gradually, I felt myself erode. It became painfully obvious how little my wants mattered. The person I had worked hard to be seemed to fade into the background. It wasn’t just the pressure from others; I willingly surrendered parts of myself, unsure of what else to do. Isn’t that what being a mother means? Isn’t that what society expects of us?
A few years later, I found myself avoiding mirrors. When I finally caught a glimpse of my reflection, I gasped. Who was this woman? My life didn’t feel like my own anymore, and I was no longer the person I had fought so hard to become. My preferences about how to spend my time, who to be with, and even my need for solitude or connection felt inconsequential.
Everyone around me seemed to know better about my life, and everything revolved around my children. Every choice I made stemmed from their needs. I lived my life for them — cooking, cleaning, worrying, and existing solely for their benefit. Whenever I interacted with others, the first question was always, “How are the girls?” It became a mantra, drowning out any sense of my own identity.
As I write this, I notice the clothes I’m wearing, part of the same handful that still fit me. My body has transformed in ways that remind me of motherhood — my hips are wider, my hair is thinning, and daily struggles like incontinence have become my new reality. I often feel frumpy and exhausted, yet our limited resources are always directed toward ensuring my children have what they need. The cycle feels endless, and amidst all this, I remain invisible.
When visitors come, my children steal the spotlight. I can hardly recall the last time I had a conversation with an adult that wasn’t interrupted multiple times by my kids. Most of the time, I retreat to another room, trying to escape the joyful chaos.
I love my daughters dearly, but I am not just their mother. I cherish silence, the sound of birds, and deep conversations that make me feel alive. I long for the thrill of getting lost in nature, watching documentaries, or simply indulging in a good book at the beach. I enjoy wearing vintage finds and imagining their history, and I love the little luxuries of life, like pedicures and pizza from a local joint.
I also revel in the joy my daughters bring me—laughter, snuggles, and the moments when they declare I’m the best mom in the world. I take pride in nurturing two strong, independent girls who will undoubtedly make their mark on the world. I cherish discovering who they are, and being the one who can comfort them in tough times.
I am Lily and Ava’s mother, but I am also the girl who once filled rooms with her energy, who had dreams that burned brightly. I am a mother, yet I am so much more. Beneath the worn clothes and chipped nails, I’m still here, waiting for someone to notice me again, yearning to reclaim the life I once envisioned for myself.
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