Eight years ago,

if someone had asked me—

Do you want to marry? Do you want children?

I would have gone silent.

Maybe even scared.

To me, having a child was more than responsibility.

It was a life completely dependent on you.

And I didn’t want to fail at it.

I didn’t want to fail at motherhood.

I wasn’t ready—

not emotionally, not mentally.

The strength it takes

to shape and nurture a life…

I didn’t think I had it in me.

But here I am.

Not perfect—

but present.

And somewhere along the way…

I became a mother.

Every day, I show up—

trying to give this little one a life filled with love.

No regrets. No burdens.

Just a heart full of care to give.

Some days I say—

I need a minimal day today.

And the next moment…

I feel like I should be doing more for her.

I juggle constantly—

between being there for her

and holding onto something of my own.

There are moments I am exhausted,

yet I still reach for her… hold her.

Moments when tears sit quietly at the edge,

yet I am smiling—for her.

And yes…

this version of me is beautiful.

This motherhood…

is beautiful.

My child has brought out the best in me—

a calmer, gentler, more patient version of who I was.

It feels like everything I hope to see in her…

I am slowly becoming myself.

A better version.

A softer one.

From a carefree girl

to someone more careful, more considerate.

Motherhood didn’t just make me a mother—

it changed the way I see the world.

It made me gentler.

This is who I am now—

not lost, just found in a different layer.

Still learning.

Still growing.

Still unfolding in ways I never expected.

Not who I once was,

but not someone unfamiliar either.

But now aware—

and slowly embracing the woman I am becoming.

Motherhood turned out to be far more

than I had imagined—

and yet, deeply beautiful.

There are quiet moments

when it’s just me and my baby—

and everything feels enough.

And still…

even in that fullness,

something gently feels missing.

Because in becoming a mother…

I also became a wife in a different way.

The love didn’t disappear—

but it changed.

The quiet conversations,

the effortless closeness,

the simple joy of just being—

slowly turned into feeding schedules

and holding a baby in between.

From the outside,

the three of us look complete.

But what about the two of us?

What about the woman in me?

There are days I feel invisible.

Days I long to be seen again—

not as a mother,

but as myself.

To feel alone,

yet together.

To miss what once was,

and still embrace what is.

It is a quiet, courageous journey.

And then I think about the girl I once was.

She wasn’t just someone with dreams—

she lived inside them.

She had clarity.

She had direction.

She knew what made her feel alive.

She loved studying,

going to university,

meeting her friends without overthinking time.

She loved the simple things—

watching shows she enjoyed,

making journals,

creating little things with her hands

just because it made her happy.

There was ease in her days.

A lightness in the way she moved through life.

No constant weight of responsibility.

No guilt for resting.

No questioning herself every moment.

She lived freely.

With energy.

With certainty.

And now I sit here…

wondering when I stopped feeling like her.

Sometimes, when I miss myself,

I look at my wedding photos—

they remind me of us.

Of who we were,

before everything changed.

I go back to old pictures

when I miss my friends—

moments that felt effortless,

full of laughter,

without the weight of time.

I call my parents—

not always because I need something,

but because I miss being their daughter.

And somewhere in all of this…

I realise—

I am constantly reaching back

to pieces of who I used to be.

But somewhere along the way…

people stopped asking about me.

They ask—

How is the baby?

And I answer.

But a quiet question lingers—

What about me?

In all this chaos,

so much is gained—

but so much is quietly lost too.

And even now, as I write this…

I pause.

Trying to remember—

what did I love?

What made me feel like me?

It hasn’t even been that long.

So how is it

that there are

so few glimpses of me left?

To the woman I am learning to find again.

— Arwa

HerAtlas