Somewhere Along the Way, I Forgot Who I Was

I used to think adulthood would feel more…certain.

When I was younger, I thought I’d grow up, become a teacher, get married, have kids, and somehow just naturally become “who I was supposed to be.” Like one day I’d wake up and feel accomplished and confident and sure of myself.

Instead, life happened.

And somewhere between surviving, motherhood, marriage, laundry, dishes, school pickups, heartbreak, grief, and trying to keep everyone else okay…

I lost the part of me that was just Sina.

Not “Mom.”

Not “wife.”

Not the person making dinner or folding towels or remembering spirit week or mowing the yard because it has to be done.

Just me.

The truth is, there were years of my life where survival was the only goal.

People see the version of you that made it out, but they don’t always see the years it took to get there. They don’t see the fear, the silence, the walking on eggshells, or the way you slowly start shrinking yourself to keep someone else happy.

For over a decade, survival looked like protecting my kids while trying to survive a marriage that quietly broke pieces of me.

I also want to say something that matters.

Not every chapter of my life hurt me.

My first marriage taught me what it feels like to disappear inside yourself. To constantly try to keep the peace. To survive instead of live.

But this marriage?

This one gave me room to breathe again.

And I don’t think people realize how life-changing it is to finally be loved in a way that feels safe.

Not perfect. Not some fairy tale from a movie. Just safe.

Safe enough to slowly become yourself again.
Safe enough to speak without fear.
Safe enough to realize you were never “too much” to begin with.

Sometimes healing doesn’t happen because life suddenly gets easy.

Sometimes healing begins the moment you’re finally around people who stop making survival feel necessary.

But even after leaving, some things never fully leave you.

I think that’s the part people don’t talk about enough.

You can escape something and still spend years trying to find yourself afterward.

Now my life is quieter.

Most days look painfully ordinary.

I take the kids to school. I keep up with laundry and dishes. I blog. I sit on the couch probably more than I should. I pick the boys up from school. I cook dinner. I go to bed tired.

Then I wake up and do it all over again.

On weekends, we try to make memories. Beach trips. Exploring Florida. Pool days. Small moments that remind me life can still feel light sometimes.

And somewhere in the middle of all that ordinary living, I’m grieving people I don’t think I’ll ever fully stop grieving.

Losing Nannie changed me.

Losing JazzLynn changed me.

Grief has a way of making you look at your own life differently. It makes you realize how temporary all of this is. How fast time moves. How dangerous it is to spend your whole life waiting to become yourself someday.

Because suddenly “someday” feels terrifying.

The hardest part to admit is that I still don’t know exactly who I am becoming.

I’ve changed college majors more times than I can count. I’ve worked random jobs. I’ve questioned myself constantly. I’ve spent years feeling stuck while watching other people seem so sure of their purpose.

And if I’m being completely honest?

Sometimes I still feel like a loser.

Not because anyone told me I was.

But because I look at my life and wonder why I haven’t figured it out yet.

I wonder why I’m still searching for the thing that makes me feel accomplished. The thing that finally makes me feel like I matter outside of taking care of everyone else.

But maybe healing isn’t always some huge movie moment.

Maybe sometimes healing looks like surviving long enough to rediscover yourself little by little.

Maybe it looks like a woman in her 40s finally realizing she’s allowed to want more for herself too.

Not fame.

Not perfection.

Not some picture-perfect life.

Just more.

More purpose.
More confidence.
More peace.
More me.

I don’t know exactly who future Sina is yet.

But I hope she feels accomplished.

I hope she stops apologizing for existing.

I hope she realizes she was never “behind” in life just because her path looked different.

And more than anything, I hope my kids remember that I tried.

Even when I failed.
Even when I was scared.
Even when I felt lost.

I tried.

And honestly?

Maybe that counts for more than we think it does.