Losing Your Identity As a Mom: What It Feels Like And Small Steps That Actually Help
The barista set my oat latte down in front of me last month, and my old college roommate leaned across the sticky café table, wiping a blueberry crumb off her own sleeve. “So, what’ve you been into lately? Anything that’s not kid stuff?” I stirred my latte so hard the foam sloshed over the edge onto my wrist. My mind went completely blank. Before kids, I collected vintage poetry chapbooks, hiked local trails every weekend, even wrote bad indie film reviews for a tiny campus blog. That day, the only thing I could think to say was “We just potty trained the 3-year-old.”
I laughed it off with her, but the question niggled at me all the drive home. That night, after I’d packed lunches, read two bedtime stories, and wiped toothpaste splatter off the bathroom mirror, I climbed into the attic to dig out my oldest’s winter coat for the upcoming cold snap. Behind the Christmas bins, I found a cardboard box labeled “JEN’S OLD STUFF.” Inside were my scuffed hiking boots, a stack of dog-eared chapbooks, and the beat-up notebook I used to fill with film reviews. I held the notebook in my hands and couldn’t remember the last time I’d written anything that wasn’t a grocery list or a note to my kid’s teacher.
I love being a mom. I wouldn’t trade the sticky hugs, the impromptu dance parties in the living room, or the way my 5-year-old still brings me dandelions he picks on the walk home from school. But standing in that dusty attic, I realized I’d become just “mom” to everyone—including myself. No one asked me what I thought about a book or a movie anymore. I didn’t even ask myself. I posted a vague line about it on my personal Facebook page: “I love being a mom but I feel like I’ve lost my identity outside of parenting. Anyone else been here?” I got dozens of comments that all said “me too!” but no one said what they did about it.
A week later, my sister came over for taco night. She’s a 4th grade teacher and mom of three, so she’s seen every version of parenting chaos. I told her about the coffee shop, the box in the attic, and all the “me too” comments that didn’t go any further. She nodded and wiped taco grease off her apron, said she’d gone through exactly the same thing after her first kid was born. Back then, she’d loved growing heirloom tomatoes, but she’d turned her whole backyard into a swing set and sandbox and didn’t plant a single tomato for three years. When someone asked her what she liked to do, she’d just talk about her son’s soccer schedule.
She said all the big advice you see online—take a weekend away, quit staying home and go back to full time work, pick up a fancy new hobby—doesn’t work for most of us. We don’t have extra money for a weekend away, or extra childcare, or extra energy after a full day of parenting. Identity isn’t something you go find on a retreat, she said. It’s built from small, repeated choices that are just for you. Then she gave me three small, doable things to try, no big overhaul required.
First, pick something that takes 10 minutes or less, that doesn’t need special planning or childcare. It can be anything, even something that doesn’t “count” as a hobby. I picked doodling—I used to doodle in my college notebooks during boring lectures, and I liked it. I bought a $3 pocket sketchbook and a pack of pens, and I stuck it in my diaper bag, which I carry everywhere anyway. Now, when I’m waiting for the kids to get out of school, or when my oldest is at soccer practice, I doodle for 10 minutes instead of scrolling through my phone looking at other people’s perfect family photos.
Second, add one non-mom detail to every new introduction. Before, I’d walk up to another parent at the playground and say “Hi, I’m Jen, Leo’s mom.” Now I say “Hi, I’m Jen, Leo’s mom. I’ve been messing around with doodling old movie posters lately.” It’s such a tiny change, but it stops the conversation from immediately veering into potty training or school lunch drama, and it reminds me I have other things to talk about.
Third, stop putting your old interests in storage. I used to keep all my poetry chapbooks boxed up in the attic, because I thought I needed a whole free afternoon to sit and enjoy them. Now I keep one on my kitchen counter, next to the toaster. I read one poem while my toast pops up every morning. It’s two minutes, it’s nothing, but it’s my two minutes. No one gets a say in it, no one benefits from it but me.
It’s been a month now, and I’m not a whole new person. I still spend 90% of my day wiping counters, reminding kids to put their shoes on, and checking math homework. Last week at my oldest’s parent-teacher conference, the teacher introduced me as “Mia’s mom” and I didn’t even think to correct her. Some weeks I get too busy, and I don’t open my sketchbook for five days straight.
But there are small shifts. Last week at the library, another mom saw my chapbook while we waited for story time to start, asked me about it, and we’re meeting for coffee next week to talk about books, not kindergarten orientations. I taped my doodle of Clueless (my favorite movie from high school) to the inside of my pantry door, where only I see it. It’s messy, it’s not that good, but it’s mine.
I don’t think I’ll ever get back the identity I had before kids, and that’s okay. I’m not even sure I want that 22-year-old girl’s identity back. But I’m learning that I don’t have to choose between being mom and being me. Right now, this is enough—ten minutes of doodling, one poem a day, a tiny detail to add to my introduction. It’s a start, and that’s all I need for now.
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