Emerging from the Fog: Two Years of Motherhood and the Grace of Letting Go

It feels like yesterday I was holding a tiny, fragile human for the first time, overwhelmed by a love so fierce it was almost terrifying. And yet, it also feels like an entire lifetime has passed. If I'm being honest, the last two years weren't a highlight reel of matching outfits and perfect nursery decor. They were hard.

When my baby arrived, so did a thick, isolating fog. I didn't recognize myself, and I certainly didn't recognize my life. The things that once defined me—my career drive, my social life, my love for silence and solitude—all dissolved into a never-ending loop of feeding schedules, diaper changes, and the heavy weight of exhaustion.

I felt completely unable to offer the support my friends or family might have needed, because I was desperately struggling just to keep myself afloat. I limited visiting my treasured family, feeling too depleted and overwhelmed to make the drive. This wasn't just physical exhaustion; it was emotional and mental depletion. I was tormented by the question of whether I was doing everything wrong, completely consumed by an impossible vision of what a perfect mother should look like.

Now, as my toddler is running, talking, and suddenly showing glimpses of a wholly independent little personality, the fog is finally lifting. I can see clearly for the first time in what feels like forever.

And with that clarity comes a sting.

I look back at those two years and feel a profound sadness for the moments I missed because I was too far under the surface. The friendships that went untended. The family events I RSVP'd "no" to. The me that I neglected. I mourn the time I spent feeling like a shell of a person, distancing myself from the very people who might have offered a hand in the darkness. That time is gone, and I’ll never get those moments back. It’s a tough truth to swallow.

I have to acknowledge that the woman who survived that fog is not the woman who went into it, and that’s okay. She is stronger, more resilient, and possesses a depth of empathy that only comes from navigating true darkness. I am learning, slowly, to give myself the grace I deserve. I did what I needed to do to survive, to keep my baby safe and loved. That was the singular mission, and I accomplished it.

I wasn't a perfect mom. I yelled. I cried. I felt resentful. I am a human being, not a robot, and my child still knows, without a doubt, that he is loved fiercely.

My life looks different now. My priorities have shifted. My time is precious. The "new me" might have fewer spontaneous nights out, but she has a greater capacity for quiet joy. She is softer, yet somehow tougher. The woman who emerged from the fog is a mother, yes, but she is also still me—just a version that's been made better. I am slowly reaching back out, tending the garden of my relationships, and forgiving the version of myself who simply couldn't.

If you are reading this and still firmly planted in the fog, please know this: You will emerge. Be kind to the woman you are right now. She is doing the absolute best she can, and that is more than enough.