THE WOMAN WITHIN: ‘HOW MOTHERHOOD HELPED ME MEET MYSELF AGAIN’
By Nicole Fuge
I can’t tell you the exact moment I lost myself. Perhaps it was somewhere in the dim light of 2am, pacing the hallway with my baby pressed to my chest. Perhaps it was in the endless chorus of “Muuum!” that pulled me in every direction until I no longer knew which way was mine. Or perhaps it was quieter than that, a gradual dissolving, a slow fade, like ink bleeding across a page.
I have two children, six and four. They are my life’s greatest loves, the axis on which my world turns. My daughter, already striding ahead, full of questions and quick retorts. My son, still soft and tender, curling into me like a secret. They are my heart. And yet, in raising them, I misplaced pieces of myself.
I used to think this was the measure of a good mother: to give everything until there was nothing left. I thought sacrifice was the proof of love. And so I offered myself up, quietly and completely, until one day I looked in the mirror and could no longer find the woman behind the tired eyes.
THE TURNING POINT WAS NOT DRAMATIC
There was no great awakening, no single defining event. It was more like a flicker, a sudden flash of recognition that startled me.
Who was this woman in the reflection? Not the lines around her eyes or the mess of hair scraped into a lopsided bun, those I grew to wear with a kind of pride. It was deeper. She felt like a ghost. The girl who once took care of herself, who wanted more than survival … where had she gone?
I realised then that my children did not need me to disappear. They needed me visible. A whole woman in her own right.
Small Beginnings
So I began quietly, almost shyly. Reading books that had nothing to do with parenting. A dress chosen simply because it made me feel beautiful. Coffee with a friend while the laundry sat defiantly in its basket. These were my first rebellions, small but potent reminders: I exist, too.
And with time, the gestures grew bolder. I moved my body, not to erase its history but to feel strong within it. I listened to my choice of music in the car (carefully vetted to suit young ears, of course). I painted my nails again. I ate the last piece of chocolate. I gave myself permission to imagine a purpose beyond the four walls of our home.
Each act stitched me back together, thread by thread.
The Shadow of Guilt
Of course, guilt shadowed me at every turn. It whispered that wanting more was selfish, that loving my children should be enough. But I am learning that gratitude and longing are not opposites. That I can adore my children and still ache for the woman inside me. That tending to myself is not an abandonment of them, but an offering: a mother who is not hollowed out, but whole.
And in truth, I am a better mother because of it. More present. More patient. More joyful. My love is no longer tangled up in depletion.
What I Hope They See
When my children look at me, I hope they see a mother who loves them beyond measure. But I also hope they see a woman; one who values her voice, her dreams, her life.
Because one day, they will go searching for themselves, too. They will wonder who they are beyond the roles they play. And when that moment comes, I hope they remember how their mother kept searching, too.
THE Becoming
Almost seven years into motherhood, I feel like I am slowly coming home. Not to the woman I was before; she is gone, and I no longer mourn her. Instead, I am becoming someone new: softer in some places, sharper in others. Stronger, but also more gentle with myself.
Motherhood stripped me bare, but in that stripping came a strange, beautiful gift: the chance to rebuild with intention. To choose what parts of me to carry forward. To remember that inside every mother, a woman waits quietly.
She may be patient. She may be hidden. But she is there. And when you find her again … in a book, a dress, a moment of stillness; let me tell you, it feels like a love story.
I am still writing mine. Every day. And this time, I will not let her disappear.
MUSE PAPER
ISSUE 08