There’s this moment you don’t even notice at first. A slow fade. It’s not some dramatic “the call is coming from inside the house” breakdown either. It’s just a gentle erosion of self. Like someone’s been stealing parts of you here and there while you were busy responding to emails, filling out insurance forms, surviving a pandemic, and trying to make sure nobody in your house ran out of hope (and snacks).

One day, you’re cracking up over a random dance party in your kitchen with your kids, and the next, you’re halfway through a meeting trying to remember if you already made the coffee or just thought about making it. You spend more moments staring off into space, wearing the unsexy undies that have definitely seen better days, and think: What happened? Where did I go?

You didn’t mean to lose yourself. I mean, come on, no one does this shit on purpose.

But life doesn’t exactly hand you a task list or map for how to keep your identity intact while the world’s burning down around you.

For me, it started around 2020. Yeah. That year. I think a lot of us had the beginning of chaos start in 2020. Global pandemic and then schools shut down. Everything was real uncertain right? Marmalade Stalin in the White House wasn’t helping either. And then, just to make sure the trauma cocktail was extra strong – in August 2020, my mom died. It was fast yet beautiful in its own way. She had a good death, if there’s such a thing and was able to really go on her own terms. But I stayed behind with the grief and the logistics and the ache that doesn’t go away with thoughts and prayers.

Then came the breast cancer. Because why the hell not pile that on the bullshit I’ve already got on my plate. Cue multiple surgeries. Lymphedema. Frankenstein’s monster level scars. Now let’s add the whole ‘pink warrior’ nonsense people expect from breast cancer patients (when really it actually feels like another full-time job only with less PTO, more stress, and more unsolicited advice).

And all the while, I kept trying to show up. I really did. I showed up at work. I tried to be present at home. I was the mom who holds it down, and the wife who makes it look easy. I was the team player, the leader, the professional. I was trying to check all the boxes while I was quietly falling further from myself.

I used to be a disruptor. I was the girl who ran straight into the middle of protests and live-tweeted civil disobedience from city council meetings in Ferguson. I used to speak truth to power with no filter and no apology. I built a damn empowerment movement from my kitchen table with a camera and some Hope. I didn’t climb the corporate ladder, I set it on fire and built a new way for other women to rise. So how the hell did I end up chasing KPIs and pretending that any of it filled me?

Honestly? I tried to play the game. I wore the blazer. I “leaned in”. I smiled when I really wanted to scream. I swallowed against my disruptive nature every time someone said “that’s not how we do things here” and turned myself inside out trying to fit into a system that wasn’t built for women like me. And you know what? It wasn’t enough.

Because that version of success came at the cost of forgetting who I was.

Somewhere between the grief, cancer, Zoom calls, the performative gratitude, and the exhaustion of pretending I belonged in a professional world not made for me – I lost myself.

But here’s the silver lining about all of this: once you realize you’re missing, you get to deploy your own personal search party. And this is where joy can re-enter the chat.

Some days, that looks like saying “no” to one more fucking meeting that should’ve been an email. Some days, it’s a rage-run to remember who the fuck you are on a Tuesday morning or writing a blog post that absolutely no one asked for but your brain needed to get the words out. And some days, it’s standing in the kitchen while your husband and daughters cheer you on because there’s the mom who dances and cusses and laughs with her whole chest. There I am.

And lately, I catch Amelia and Haley catching me coming back to myself. They see activist mom peeking through. You know, the one who raised her voice (a lot) and raised the bar as best she could. The one who marched, fought, built, and didn’t flinch in the face of a riot line. I get glimpses of the women they’re becoming too and they are so smart, bold, funny as hell, and unwilling to shrink for anyone. They are taking up space in ways I had to fight tooth and nail to do, and I am so proud. I can also see they’re watching me come back to myself. I like to think that they are maybe learning how to do the same someday if they ever feel lost.

Even my friends – the ones who’ve held space for all the versions of me – are starting to nod and smirk and say things like, yes girl, there you are.

And yeah, here I fucking am. In all my messy glory.

Each little act of rebellion, the ones that would’ve gotten me side-eyed in my corporate life, feels like sacred ground now. I’m speaking up when it’s inconvenient and telling the truth when it’s uncomfortable. I’m choosing rest. I’m choosing rage. I’m choosing joy and laughter. I’m finally choosing me again.

I’m not fully back yet. But I know I’m close. And this version of me? She’s not afraid to be messy. There is no performative strength here – I am living my strength now. And I am done dimming my damn light just to make other people comfortable.

So if you’re reading this and feeling a little tug, a little twinge of an ache, a slight whisper that something isn’t right – you’re not alone! You’re also not broken. You’re just buried under survival mode – and I know it’s exhausting.

And if you’ve forgotten who you are too? That’s okay. Start small and maybe a little loud. Start wherever the hell you are really!

Just start.

Because the world doesn’t need your perfection or your performance.

It just needs your truth. That’s all.