Late-Night Birthday Thoughts
It’s late and I’m sitting alone in our kitchen on the eve of my 31st birthday, listening to the tune of our dishwasher and eating a chocolate chip cookie. I can’t help but to think about this time last year when I was very pregnant and very much into low-key, minimal birthday plans. I had promised myself that I’d celebrate this new decade in style with a good ol’ party when I turned 31.
Well, 31 is almost here and honestly, I’m just tired. My back, my ears, my soul are all exhausted. Which makes sense since I have a 9 month old kiddo who is currently teething or growing his brain or learning some new skill, or whatever other thing making him clingy and in need of lots of extra comfort.
But still. I’m tired, and I’m sad that I’m tired. I’m sad that I’m sad. I’m ashamed that I don’t feel like I have it all, or even some of it, together. And I’m annoyed that I feel stuck in this repetitive cycle of intellectually knowing that where I’m at is okay, but not actually believing that to be true for me.
And in this deep, very reasonable exhaustion, I’m finding my self, the me I used to recognize, to be blurry. Out of focus. Out of reach. Out of sorts. Where I used to describe myself as gentle, I feel harsh. Where I used to feel engaged, I find myself disconnected. Where I used to be settled, I feel untethered, like a balloon floating without much direction.
While I’m so thankful to be a mom, I miss the me from before. That one that felt lighter (and got to sleep in which was a huge help, let’s be real) and grounded.
And at the same time, I love the mom I am to our son. How I can show up for him and be that gentle, engaged, settled presence. Being a mom has stretched this me I am today in beautiful, hard ways. But while I’m able to show up in motherhood, it feels like my energy only reaches so far.
I’ve found it difficult to write in this postpartum season, partially for that reason. I also worry writing about motherhood, the biggest thing I’m thinking about lately, will feel alienating to people who aren’t a parent. I wonder what I can write that’s worth saying when I feel like I’m stuck processing the same things over and over again.
But these early birthday chocolate chip cookies (thanks, Stu!) and gurgling dishwasher are cheering me on to start typing something, anything. Because writing feels gentle. Words feel engaging. And organizing chaotic thoughts into sentences settles me.
I don’t know what this next year of life will hold for me. Probably more sad days. Hopefully lots of happy ones. Most of all, I hope that 31 brings me, me. Who I’ve been, and who I’m meant to be.
If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading my rambling, disorganized birthday thoughts. May you also find space for your own messy moments and spaces.
