“On the day that you were born,
the angels got together
and decided to create a dream come true.”“(They Long to Be) Close to You” by The Carpenters
According to the cosmic grapevine, I met my demise in a previous life by drowning. The medium didn’t offer much detail about my aquatic mishap, but considering that three-year-old me nearly drowned in this life—sinking to the bottom of our backyard pool during a family birthday party—it’s fair to say I’ve spent some time in the deep end.
Figuratively and literally.
Through the looking glass.
It was with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism that my now-husband—the one who patiently endures my nighttime antics—and I sat down with a psychic at the Western Fair in 1999. The idea of peeking into past lives or glimpsing at what our future might hold was intriguing to me. It felt a bit like watching a good thriller unfold—except we were the main characters, and the plot was, well, delightfully vague.
I wonder if my grandmother felt the same curiosity when, in 1935, she also visited a fortune-teller. Or maybe she was just seeking a little hope in uncertain times. Among the ambiguous predictions she also received, one stood out: the psychic told her she’d have three children: two boys and one girl. For all the ones of you reading this, you will recall that she ended up with eight. 🤷♀️
The real revelation.
Belief in psychics is often chalked up to chance or deception. But there’s something fun about uncovering new truths about ourselves, even if through an unconventional lens. These glimpses invite us to reflect—not just on who we are, but who we might become and how we how we fit into the greater story of life.
But the real revelations? They don’t come from cards or crystal balls. They come from the lives we lead, the moments that challenge us, and the roles that transform us.
For me, that role was motherhood.
Me, myself and I.
We all live with different versions of ourselves: the person we think we are, the person others perceive us to be, and the person we truly are. For years, Younger Me struggled to reconcile these layers. Was I the shy, introspective person I saw in the mirror? The confident woman others assumed I was? Or maybe neither? Or maybe someone in between? The ghosts of my past self often lingered, casting shadows on how I saw Future Me. And while each helped me connect the dots of my story, they hadn’t yet revealed who I was meant to be.
It wasn’t until I became a mother that those versions began to align.
Suddenly, the layers of self-perception began to peel back. I discovered a truer version of myself, one that had been waiting (somewhat) patiently for this moment. It was as if all the fragmented versions of myself didn’t disappear but instead converged. The quiet observation of the young girl, the patience of the dreamer, the strength of the confident woman—they all played a role in the mother I became.
Is that your final answer?
Being a young mother was like diving into the deep end of life—no handbook, no lifeline (and no Google to search or mother to call)—just the realization that a tiny life depends on you. Every stage, every sleepless night, and every endless (yet endearing) “why?”—became an opportunity to grow and give, even when I felt completely out of my depth.
Not all gifts wear bows.
In the giggles, the grasp of his tiny hand, and the quiet moments, I found joy. I discovered an unspoken language with my son, unlocking a bond that felt as though it had always been there, waiting. Even on the hard days—when I was physically and emotionally exhausted in ways I’d never known—I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing what I was meant to do.
It challenged me to become more patient, more compassionate and more understanding than I ever imagined possible. Every moment from the mundane to the extraordinary felt like piecing together a puzzle, each one a clue to who I was becoming.
Seeing the world through his eyes was a gift. His curiosity, innocence, and wonder reminded me of life’s beauty. And the love—oh, the love. It was fierce, protective, and unconditional. The kind that made my chest ache and my heart full with every little milestone.
The self you didn’t see coming.
Motherhood, in a word, is humbling. It strips you down and builds you back up—sometimes in the same breath. It’s messy, imperfect, beautiful, overwhelming, challenging—and utterly extraordinary. It asks more of you than you think you have to give, and then somehow shows you that you always had it in you. It teaches you to surrender your ego, to lead with love, to embrace the chaos, and to find meaning in the smallest moments. It didn’t just change me; it defined me. It tethered me to something greater—a soul-satisfying, ground-anchoring, heart-expanding, purpose-filled kind of something.
The self you didn’t see shifting.
Identity, though, is a slippery thing. One day, it can feel solid. Certain. And then, almost imperceptibly, it can begin to shift—especially in the quiet that follows years of constant motion. When the house stills, the laundry slows, and you’re no longer needed in quite the same way, something subtle starts to stir. The version of you that once felt whole can begin to quietly unravel—thread by thread—without anyone noticing. Sometimes, not even you.
Or sometimes, the shift can blindside you mid-monologue, as you’re basking in clarity while crossing the street with a hopeful smile—and suddenly, a Mack truck barrels into frame and sends you flying like emotional confetti.
End scene.