Raising Her, Becoming Me

 Before I held her, I thought I had a decent grasp on who I was. 

But then came her.
Tiny. Pink. A bundle of strawberry-blonde wonder wrapped in a hospital blanket and a hundred unspoken prayers. From the first time she blinked up at me with those wide, searing eyes, I felt something shift. Something deeper than exhaustion or joy—it was a reckoning. 

I wasn't just becoming a mother.
I was being me. 

There's this quiet, un-glamorous truth no one really prepares you for: raising a child peels back every layer of who you thought you were. It asks you to show up, over and over again, even when you don't recognize yourself in the mirror. It humbles you with diaper blowouts and midnight bottle feeds. And yet, in the chaos, it also builds you up in the most beautiful way. 

 Her giggles have become my grounding.
Her cries, my courage.
Her wonder, my wake-up call. 

Each day with her teaches me something new—about patience, about letting go of perfection, about healing. She doesn't know it, but she's rewiring parts of me I didn't even realize were hurting. The parts that doubted I was enough. The parts that questioned whether I could be the kind of mother, the kind of woman, I want her to look up to. 

Spoiler alert: I won't be perfect. But I'll be present. I'll be growing. And I'll be honest—because that's how she'll learn that becoming is a lifelong process, not a Pinterest-worthy end goal. 

So while I'm raising her to become strong, kind, bold, and brave...

She's raising me to become real. 

To breathe deeper.
To laugh harder.
To love louder.
To forgive quicker—myself most of all. 

And that, my friends, is the paradox of motherhood: you think you're pouring into your child, but more often than not, she's the one filling you back up. 

So here's to the journey—of raising her, and becoming me.