Who I am isn’t defined by my name or age
What matters most is that I am a mother of two daughters.
I work, not because I love to, but because I have to sustain my life and theirs.
There is no time for play, no space for joy that isn’t filtered through responsibility.
Most of my days are spent in a constant state of alert;
Protecting, preserving, and praying that I don’t lose what I’ve worked so hard to build.
What is security to me?
It’s not money or locks on the door.
It’s freedom, the kind that comes from not needing to rely on anyone unless I choose to.
And right now, I think I finally have that.
What makes me feel safe?
Being aware.
Understanding the dangers that exist and having the ability to move around them quietly, strategically.
I have always enjoyed creating.
I love to take things apart just to see how they work.
Lately, I’ve been trying to upskill myself, not because I have to, but because it keeps me from disappearing into the noise of everyday life.
TV doesn’t do it for me. I want to do, not just watch.
And I’m trying, really trying, to understand me.
Who am I now?
What did I once love?
As a child: I drew. I played netball. I swam. I sang.
As an adult: I dance when I can. I sing when I’m alone. I garden when the sun shows up. I make clothes and dream about holidays that feel out of reach.
I don’t think I get enough time to just be.
There’s always someone needing, asking, expecting.
And most days, it feels like I’m a guest in my own life, like I exist in service to everyone else.
Even my children, whom I love endlessly, sometimes bully and dictate.
I have to remind myself: They are in my space. I am not in theirs.
What do I want?
I want appreciation, for me.
Not for what I can do or what I’ve done, but for who I am at my core.
I want to be seen, not through the lens of my mistakes, but through the truth of my growth.
I want to be loved, not for my usefulness, but for my presence.
Right now, it feels like everyone around me loves me for what they get from me.
But I want someone to love me simply because I exist.
Real Talk: Diary of a Seriously Fcked Off Parent 