Her After The Journey Back to Me

My story  ·  Part one

Failing Before I Even Began….

 

A series on falling apart, surviving, falling again, and slowly — imperfectly — finding my way back to myself.

I want to tell you the truth. Not the cleaned-up version. Not the one where I figured it out early or had some beautiful awakening in a bathtub with candles. The real one — the one I’m still living.

This story starts before motherhood. It starts with a relationship already crumbling before I knew a baby was growing inside me. I didn’t get the soft landing of a solid partnership, a plan, a person to hold my hand through the terrifying first ultrasound. What I got was the floor — and the news that someone was counting on me to get back up.

And I did. I got up. But “up” looked a lot like survival mode, and I stayed there for longer than I want to admit.

Survival is its own kind of heroism. But it’s not living. I didn’t know that yet.

If this is already finding you somewhere real — you can stay connected here. No noise, just the next part when it’s ready. [Join the list →]

 

The trenches of early motherhood are real. If you’ve been there, you know. The exhaustion that lives in your bones. The disappearing — not all at once, but slowly, like a photo left in the sun too long. You look up one day and realize you can’t quite remember who you were before you became someone’s everything. And you’re not even sure you have time to grieve her.

I kept going because that’s what I knew how to do. I’m a nurse. I am trained to hold it together when everything is falling apart, to compartmentalize, to show up for other people even when I’m running on nothing. I brought that same energy home and called it strength. I didn’t realize it was also a way of avoiding myself entirely.

· · ·

There was a second fall. I need you to know that, because I think we tell the story of rock bottom like it only happens once. Like you hit it, and then the rest is recovery. But mine came in two parts — and the second one hurt more, because by then I thought I was past it.

That fall was necessary. Brutal and necessary. It stripped away everything I had built around myself as armor — the busyness, the performance of coping, the idea that if I just kept moving I wouldn’t have to feel the things I was carrying. When I finally stopped moving, everything caught up with me at once.

I didn’t lose myself all at once. And I’m not finding myself all at once either. This is slower work than I expected.

I’m not on the other side of this. I want to be honest about that. I’m writing this from inside the rebuilding — some days steady, some days barely. But I’ve found something in the doing of it, in naming the hard parts out loud, in realizing how many other women are somewhere in the same story, wondering if they’re the only one.

You’re not the only one.

That’s why this exists. Not because I have it figured out. Because I don’t — and I think there’s something more useful in watching someone do the real work than in reading about how someone already did it perfectly.

· · ·

This is the first post in a series. I’ll be sharing my story in pieces — the relationship that ended, the pregnancy I didn’t plan for, the years I spent surviving instead of living, the fall I didn’t see coming, and the slow, imperfect, ongoing work of building a life that actually fits who I am becoming.

I’ll also be sharing stories from other women walking their own versions of this road. Because this isn’t just my story. It’s a pattern so many of us live through quietly — and it deserves to be spoken.

If you’re here, something brought you. Stay as long as you need.

About this series: “My Story” follows one woman’s journey through a relationship’s end, unplanned pregnancy, the survival years of motherhood, and the ongoing work of rediscovering herself. New parts will be added as the story unfolds — because some stories aren’t finished yet, and that’s okay. If you have a story of your own, this space will one day be yours too.

If you made it here — thank you. I know it takes something to sit with words like these. To let them in.

I have one question for you, and you don’t have to have a polished answer. You can leave it in the comments, or just hold it quietly for yourself:

Where are you in your story right now? Not where you wish you were — where you actually are. Even if the only honest answer is “I have no idea,” that counts. That’s actually where most of this starts.

I read every comment. I’m not a brand. I’m a mom with a nursing job and a lot of feelings and a belief that we shouldn’t have to figure this out alone.

Stay connected

If this resonated and you want to be here when the next part goes up — no spam, no noise, just the next chapter when it’s ready — you can join the list below.

Join the list — no spam, just the next part of the story when it’s ready.

And if someone in your life needs to read this today — share it. You don’t have to explain why. Sometimes the right thing is just leaving a door open for someone.