Redefining Myself at 30
Turning 30 hit me harder than I expected. Not because of the number itself, but because it forced me to stop and really look at my life. And when I did, I realized something I’d been avoiding for years: somewhere along the way, I lost myself.
I became a mother young. I didn’t have much time to figure out who I was before I had to be everything for someone else. While other people my age were discovering themselves—going to school, traveling, making mistakes—I was already carrying the weight of responsibility. My twenties weren’t about me; they were about survival. About making sure my kids had what they needed, even when I didn’t have much left to give.
I grew up too fast. And sometimes, if I’m honest, I feel a little resentful about that. Not because I regret being a mother—I don’t, my children are my greatest love—but because I never got the chance to fully meet myself before I had to grow into someone else.
There’s a grief in that. A grief for the girl I used to be, the one who never got to be carefree, who never got to fall apart without consequences. She had to toughen up too quickly. She had to silence her own dreams to hold space for everyone else’s. And now, at 30, I catch glimpses of her sometimes—through old photos, through music I used to love, through the quiet ache that asks, What happened to me? Where did I go?
And the truth is, I don’t fully know. But I do know this: I’m tired of pretending I’m only “Mom.”
Because I’m more than that. I always have been. And I think part of why I feel so lost is because I forgot. I forgot that my name is more than “Mama.” I forgot that I used to have passions and hobbies and silly little quirks that made me who I am. I forgot that I’m not just here to serve and sacrifice, but to live, too.
So now, at 30, I’m learning. Slowly. Clumsily. Some days I sit in silence just trying to hear my own voice again. Some days I cry because I don’t know who I am outside of caring for everyone else. But some days—on the good days—I feel her. The woman I’m becoming. Stronger. Softer. Wiser. Braver.
I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t have a neat story tied up with a bow. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe 30 isn’t about being “figured out.” Maybe it’s about permission—permission to admit you’re lost, permission to chase what lights you up, permission to finally put your own name back on the list of things that matter.
If you’re a mom who feels like she disappeared into motherhood, I want you to know this: you’re not alone. You’re not selfish for wanting yourself back. You deserve to exist as a whole person, not just a caretaker.
I’m still searching for me. But for the first time in a long time, I believe I’ll find her.