I didn’t lose myself all at once. I lost myself the way most women do: a little at a time. I got married. Life got busy. I had twins. Life got really busy. Somewhere between coordinating appointments, keeping tiny humans alive, managing a household, building a business, and functioning on a level of sleep that probably violated several international treaties, pieces of me quietly disappeared.

One of those pieces was reading, which, if you know me, is absurd. I’ve always been a reader. Not in a cute “I like books” way. In a fundamental-to-my-identity way. I was the kid who always had a book. The teenager reading under the covers with a flashlight. The adult who never traveled without at least two books because what if I finished the first one? Reading wasn’t a hobby. Reading was part of who I was.

And yet one day I realized I couldn’t remember the last book I’d finished. The weird part is that I don’t remember stopping. There wasn’t a dramatic decision. I didn’t wake up one morning and think, “You know what? I’m done with books.” Life just slowly expanded until there wasn’t room. Or at least that’s what I told myself. The truth is there wasn’t room for me.

Everything and everyone else had a place. The kids. The family. The house. The appointments. The responsibilities. The never-ending list of things that needed my attention. I could tell you what everyone else needed. I couldn’t have told you what I needed. Honestly, I didn’t even realize it was happening. That’s the sneaky thing about losing yourself. Nobody sends you a notification. There’s no email. No pop-up alert. No warning that says, “Attention. The things that make you feel like yourself are being quietly removed from your life.” It just happens gradually, one skipped thing at a time.

Then the boys were born, and if you’ve ever had twins, you’ll understand when I say survival became the goal. Not thriving. Not balance. Not self-care. Survival. Add postpartum depression and anxiety to the mix and things got even darker. There came a point where I realized I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I wasn’t just exhausted. I felt disconnected from myself, like I’d become a collection of responsibilities wearing yoga pants.

That’s when I decided I needed to find my way back. Not to some younger version of myself. Not to the woman I was before marriage or motherhood. Just back to me. And I started with the easiest thing I could think of: a book. Not therapy. Not a vision board. Not a 5 a.m. miracle morning. A book. Because reading had always felt like home.

At first, it was just a few pages. Then another book. Then another. The Kindle streak helped because apparently I am exactly the kind of person who can be motivated by a tiny digital badge. No shame. Whatever works. But something interesting happened. The more I read, the more I remembered myself. Not all at once. A little at a time.

Subscribe now

Running has been like that too. I used to run before I got married, and then life got busy again. It’s amazing how often life gets busy when you’re a woman. For years, running felt like one more thing I didn’t have time for. Then recently I started again, and I remembered something: running isn’t just exercise. It’s mine.

For thirty minutes, nobody needs anything from me. Nobody is asking a question. Nobody needs a ride. Nobody needs a snack. Nobody needs me to solve a problem. It’s just me, my music, my thoughts, and the occasional realization that I am significantly less athletic than I remember. Humbling. Deeply rude. But also strangely freeing.

And yes, I keep the music low enough so I can hear what’s happening around me because apparently womanhood means even your freedom comes with a safety protocol. But still. It’s mine. I can listen to the songs I want to hear without worrying about whether the kids are going to absorb a lyric that leads to an awkward carpool conversation. I can move my body for no one’s benefit but my own. I can feel strong again. Confident again. Present again.

Not because reading and running magically solved my life. They didn’t. Bills still exist. Kids still need things. The laundry continues to regenerate like it has access to dark magic. But those things reminded me that I still exist outside of what I do for everyone else.

I think a lot of women are carrying some version of this. Not because they’re doing anything wrong, but because life is loud. People need things. Responsibilities multiply. It’s easy to spend years becoming the person everyone relies on and, in the process, forget that you’re a person too.

The answer isn’t abandoning your responsibilities and moving to a cabin in the woods, tempting though that may be. The answer is remembering that you’re allowed to take up space in your own life. You’re allowed to have things that belong only to you. You’re allowed to do things that don’t serve anyone else. You’re allowed to be more than the role you play for other people.

Maybe for you it’s reading. Maybe it’s running. Maybe it’s painting, gardening, writing, hiking, dancing, traveling, or something you haven’t thought about in years. The thing itself doesn’t matter. What matters is what it reconnects you to.

Because sometimes the way back to yourself isn’t found in some massive life overhaul. Sometimes it’s hidden inside the thing you loved before life got so loud. And maybe that’s where you start. Not by becoming someone new. By remembering who you were before everyone else needed a piece of you.

I’m curious: what’s one thing you used to love that quietly disappeared from your life?

Subscribe now

A few weeks ago, my husband decided to give us both a break from cooking and order DoorDash for dinner. It was a thoughtful gesture. We were both tired, the kids had been a lot that day, and neither of us felt like figuring out what to make.

Then he made one small “mistake.” He asked me where I wanted to order from.

And I completely lost it.

“Why do I have to decide? Can’t you make one freaking decision without me?”

The second the words came out of my mouth, I knew this wasn’t about dinner. My husband just stood there looking confused. Fair enough. On the surface, he’d asked a completely reasonable question. He wasn’t asking me to solve a major problem. He wasn’t asking me to coordinate schedules or figure out therapy appointments or manage a family crisis. He was asking where I wanted takeout from.

But by the time he asked, I’d spent the day juggling client work, handling household logistics, coordinating appointments for my neurodivergent twin boys, and carrying around the constant low-level worry that I should somehow be doing more for them than I already am.

The dinner question wasn’t the problem. It was the final Jenga block. The thing that finally made the whole tower tumble.

I immediately apologized and started crying. Not graceful movie tears, either. The ugly, exhausted Kim Kardashian kind of crying that show up when your nervous system has quietly been holding too much for too long.

Eventually my husband picked the restaurant himself. And honestly? That was the greatest gift he could have given me that night.

Not the dinner. The decision.

Because that’s the thing nobody tells you about being the strong, reliable one: the reward for being the strong one is more opportunities to be strong.

Subscribe now

You become the person who figures things out. The person people can count on. The person who remembers, coordinates, anticipates, manages, fixes, and handles. And after a while, people stop asking whether you have room for one more thing because you’ve become so good at making it look like you do.

I’ve spent my life being that person. The reliable one. The capable one. The one who figures it out.

Need someone to organize the thing? Call me. Need someone to handle the crisis? Call me. Need someone to remember the login, schedule the appointment, coordinate the calendar, order the gift, and somehow know where everybody’s missing paperwork is? Apparently, also me.

For the longest time, I thought this was one of my better qualities. And to be fair, there are worse things to be known for. But lately I’ve been wondering if a lot of us have confused strength with self-abandonment.

Because once you’re known as the strong one, something subtle starts to happen. People stop asking if you’re okay. They stop checking whether you have capacity. They stop noticing that you’re tired. Not because they’re selfish, necessarily. Because you’ve trained them not to worry.

You’ve got this. You always do. And after a while, you start believing it too.

I think a lot of women live here. We become the family logistics department, the workplace fixer, the friend who always answers, the woman who remembers birthdays, schedules appointments, fills the gaps, notices the problems, anticipates the needs, and somehow still feels guilty for wanting an afternoon alone with a book.

We become so accustomed to carrying things that we stop noticing the weight. Until one day we find ourselves irrationally angry over something tiny. A text message. A permission slip. A dinner question. Not because that thing matters, but because it landed on top of everything else.

The hardest part is that being the strong one works. It gets you trust. Responsibility. A reputation. People admire you. People appreciate you. People need you. And that’s exactly what makes it so hard to question.

Because if everyone else benefits from your strength, who benefits when you stop?

That’s the trap. Somewhere along the way, people stopped asking whether we could handle it and started assuming we would. And if we’re honest, we started assuming it too.

So we say yes when we mean no. We volunteer before anyone asks. We take responsibility for things that were never ours to carry. We convince ourselves that needing help is somehow evidence that we’re failing.

Then we wonder why we’re exhausted. Or resentful. Or fantasizing about checking into a Marriott under an assumed name and not telling a single soul where we went.

Maybe the goal isn’t to stop being strong. Maybe the goal is to stop treating strength like a full-time job.

Maybe strength isn’t carrying everything. Maybe strength is letting something drop. Maybe strength is disappointing someone. Maybe strength is saying, “I can’t do that.” Maybe strength is admitting you’re tired before your body makes the decision for you.

I don’t have a neat ending for this because I’m still figuring it out myself. But I do know this: being the strong, reliable one should be something you do. It should not be who you are.

Because when your entire identity is built around carrying everyone else, eventually you look around and realize you’ve disappeared from your own life.

And no amount of strength can fix that.

Subscribe now

If retirement is the only thing you’re looking forward to, that’s a problem.

Not because retirement is bad.

Because it’s too damn far away.

If you’re in your 40s and retirement is your only escape plan, you’re basically telling yourself:

“Just hold on another twenty years.”

Ma’am.

Absolutely not.

That’s not a strategy.

That’s a hostage negotiation.

With yourself.

And here’s what I think a lot of women do.

We confuse endurance with strategy.

We tell ourselves we’re being responsible.

We’re being practical.

We’re doing what needs to be done.

And sometimes that’s true.

But sometimes?

We’re just surviving on autopilot and calling it a plan.

Subscribe now

There’s a difference.

A big one.

I spent years thinking my job was the problem.

Then I spent years thinking I was the problem.

Turns out the real problem was that I had accidentally accepted a future I didn’t actually want.

Not because I consciously chose it.

Because I never stopped long enough to question it.

I just kept going.

Like a Roomba.

Bumping into the same walls over and over while insisting I was making progress.

And I see women doing this every day.

They tell me:

“I can do anything for a few more years.”

Then a few more years become five.

Then ten.

Then suddenly they’re staring down another twenty years of work and wondering why they feel like screaming into a decorative throw pillow.

The answer isn’t quitting tomorrow.

The answer isn’t blowing up your life.

The answer isn’t announcing on LinkedIn that you’re embracing a softer, more aligned chapter while secretly panicking about your 401(k).

The answer is options.

Because the opposite of trapped isn’t retired.

The opposite of trapped is having choices.

And maybe that’s the real question.

Not:

“When can I retire?”

But:

“Why is retirement the only future version of my life that sounds appealing right now?”

Oof.

That’s the question.

Because if the only thing getting you through Monday is the hope that someday you’ll never have to work again...

the issue probably isn’t work.

The issue is that you’ve built a life that requires too much of you and gives too little back.

And no amount of gratitude journaling is going to fix that.

So maybe before you open the retirement calculator again, ask yourself this:

If retirement wasn’t an option for another twenty years, what would I need to change to make next year feel better than this one?

Not perfect.

Not magical.

Just better.

Because twenty more years of work?

Maybe.

Twenty more years of pretending this is fine?

Hell no.

Share

Subscribe now

I think some of us are a lot closer to falling apart than anybody realizes.

Including ourselves.

Because from the outside, our lives still technically work.

We still answer emails.
Still show up.
Still remember spirit week.
Still buy the birthday gift.
Still hit deadlines.
Still say “haha no worries!” while actively developing stress-induced eye twitches.

And because we’re still functioning, nobody asks questions.

That’s the trap.

You can be deeply unwell and still wildly productive.

In fact, for a lot of women, the productivity IS the illness.

I think some of us have become so conditioned to performing wellness that we no longer even recognize our own exhaustion as a problem.

We call it:
being busy
being tired
being stressed
being in a season
being an adult

Meanwhile your body is screaming.

And not even dramatically anymore.

That’s the scary part.

At first your body whispers.

You’re tired.
You cry more easily.
You feel anxious on Sundays.
You stop looking forward to things.
You feel weirdly disconnected from your own life.

Then eventually your body realizes:
“Oh. She’s not listening.”

So now it escalates.

Now you can’t sleep properly.
Now everything irritates you.
Now your patience disappears.
Now your brain feels like it has seventeen browser tabs open at all times.
Now you fantasize about disappearing for a week just so nobody can ask you for anything.

Not dying.

Just disappearing.

Quietly.

Temporarily.

Which I think is a fantasy a LOT more women have than anyone is willing to admit out loud.

And the truly horrifying part?

Most of us still wouldn’t describe ourselves as struggling.

Because struggling, in our minds, looks dramatic.

And we are still functioning.

Still smiling.
Still producing.
Still handling it.

You know what I think The Messy Middle actually is?

It’s the space between:
“my life technically works”
and
“I cannot keep living like this.”

That’s it.

That’s the whole thing.

And it can happen anywhere.

Inside careers.
Inside marriages.
Inside motherhood.
Inside grief.
Inside friendships.
Inside identities you worked your entire life to build.

Sometimes nothing is catastrophically wrong.

That’s what makes it so hard to explain.

You just wake up one day and realize:
you have built an entire life around survival.

And maybe nobody sees it because your survival is extremely high-performing.

Maybe you don’t even see it because you’ve been this way for so long it feels normal now.

But then little things start slipping out.

You stare at the ceiling at night thinking:
Is this seriously it?

You fantasize about running away to a tiny apartment alone where nobody can touch your stuff.

You sit in your car in silence before going inside because you need five more minutes where nobody needs anything from you.

You look at old pictures of yourself and feel grief.

Not because you got older.

Because that version of you still looked alive.

And honestly?

I think that’s the part nobody talks about enough.

The grief.

The grief of realizing you disappeared somewhere inside your own life.

The grief of becoming the person who handles everything.

The grief of spending years being needed but not known.

The grief of understanding that everyone around you benefited from your self-abandonment.

Your employer benefited.
Your family benefited.
Your colleagues benefited.
Your reputation benefited.

Hell, even you benefited.

Until you didn’t anymore.

Until one day you’re staring at job postings like a Victorian orphan looking through a bakery window because something inside you is desperate for a different life and you don’t even fully know what that means yet.

And then comes the shame.

Because you think:
Why am I unhappy?
I should be grateful.
Other people have it worse.
Nothing is even THAT bad.

Meanwhile your nervous system is hanging on by a wet noodle.

I think a lot of women are walking around one mildly inconvenient email away from a complete psychological collapse.

And nobody notices because they’re still replying:
“Sounds good!”

That’s The Messy Middle.

It’s not just careers.

It’s the quiet horror of realizing you can no longer tolerate a life you’re still actively living.

It’s outgrowing versions of yourself in real time.

It’s being exhausted by people who think you’re “so good at everything.”

It’s realizing competence is not the same thing as fulfillment.

It’s recognizing that you have spent years shape-shifting into whoever everybody else needed you to be and now you don’t know where you went.

And I think a lot of women secretly feel this way.

I think a lot of women cry in bathrooms.
And hide in grocery store parking lots.
And fantasize about solitude.
And feel emotionally numb during moments they’re supposed to enjoy.
And wonder why everything feels so heavy all the time.

Not because they’re weak.

Because they’re carrying entire lives.

That’s what this space is for.

Not polished advice.

Not aspirational bullshit.

Not pretending we can journal our way out of structural exhaustion and emotional starvation.

I want to talk about the real thing.

The ache.
The resentment.
The numbness.
The ambition.
The grief.
The rage.
The loneliness.
The identity crisis that happens when the life you built no longer feels like somewhere you can breathe.

I want to talk about the version of womanhood so many of us are living:
high-functioning
deeply capable
chronically overwhelmed
and quietly disappearing in plain sight.

And maybe most importantly:

I want us to stop pretending this is normal.

If this resonates with you, you can support the work here. Your support helps me continue creating honest essays and conversations that make people feel a little less alone in their own heads.