Becoming Her: What Emotional Growth Really Feels Like
The Beautiful Mess of Growing as a Mom, Wife, Teacher, and Friend
Emotional growth doesn’t feel like a sunrise. It feels like coming undone in a Target parking lot because you can’t remember the last time someone asked how you were really doing — or worse, because they did ask, and you didn’t know how to answer.
It’s not a clean, upward climb. It’s messy, quiet, private, exhausting. It’s waking up one morning and realizing you don’t even recognize yourself anymore — not because you’ve changed, but because you’ve finally started paying attention to the pieces of you that were always hurting.
Being a mom means your body isn’t just yours anymore. Neither is your time, your energy, or your patience. It means carrying the weight of other people’s feelings while burying your own because “they need me right now.” It means holding it together when you’re crumbling, smiling when you’re tired, and answering questions all day when you just want to be silent for once.
Being a wife means navigating love through exhaustion. It means learning to communicate when both of you are spent. It’s sharing a life and a dream, and still sometimes feeling like you live in parallel universes. It’s learning to say “I need more” without it sounding like blame. It’s noticing when your husband fills the dishwasher without being asked — and choosing to see it as love, even when you’re too tired to say thank you.
Being a teacher means being the safe place for kids who don’t have one, while trying to hold yourself together with paperclips and coffee. It means showing up every single day, even when you’re mentally elsewhere — when your own child is sick, or your heart is heavy, or you’re wondering if any of this still matters. It means carrying the invisible weight of a hundred tiny heartbreaks and still finding the strength to celebrate growth, even when your own feels stalled.
Being a friend in this season means answering texts three days late with “I’m sorry, I’ve just been in it.” It means clinging to the women who get it — who don’t flinch when you cancel, who bring coffee when you don’t ask, who remind you who you are when you forget. It means fewer girls’ nights and more “Can I vent while I fold laundry?” FaceTime calls. It means learning to be vulnerable in short bursts because that’s all the time you have — but still showing up, because friendship has become your lifeline.
And the growth? It doesn’t look like a revelation. It looks like you finally realizing that your worth isn’t in how much you do, or how much you give, or how well you keep everything running. It looks like saying “no” to one more obligation so you can say “yes” to your peace. It’s learning to let go of the guilt that’s kept you stuck. It’s crying without apologizing. It’s pausing before you snap. It’s softening your tone — not just for your kids, but for yourself.
I remember one morning, I snapped at my daughter just for asking for another snack. I wasn’t angry at her — I was empty. I sat on the bathroom floor afterward, ashamed and exhausted. That moment didn’t feel like growth. But now I see it was a turning point — the moment I realized something had to change. Not for anyone else. For me.
Sometimes growth feels like a clenched jaw, a tight chest, shoulders that haven’t dropped in days. You start to notice the sighs that come out of nowhere, the lump in your throat that won’t move. That’s your body asking to be heard, too.
Other days, it looks like falling asleep during “self-care” time with a load of unfolded laundry on your lap. That’s okay too.
Growth feels like grief sometimes — grieving who you thought you had to be: the perfect mom, the patient wife, the always-available friend, the superhero teacher. And in that grief, something powerful is born. You.
The real you. The one who’s allowed to be tired. The one who doesn’t have to prove anything. The one who is still learning, still healing, still choosing to try again.
This is productive struggle. It’s not burnout for the sake of survival. It’s learning how to be in the mess and still move forward. It’s sacred. It’s slow. And it’s so worth it.
Because somewhere in all the struggle, you start to feel something again: yourself.
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💬 You’re Not Alone
If you’re in the thick of it — feeling like you’re doing everything for everyone and somehow still not enough — I want you to know this:
You’re not failing. You’re growing. Quietly. Bravely. And you don’t have to do it alone.
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📝 Journal Prompt
Think of a recent moment where you felt overwhelmed, frustrated, or like you weren’t enough.
What was really going on underneath that feeling?
What part of you is asking to be seen, heard, or softened?
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✨ Permission Slip (For Every Woman Who Needs It)
Here’s your permission slip:
You can love your people and still need space.
You can serve others and still choose rest.
You can be kind and still be firm.
You don’t have to earn rest.
You don’t have to earn healing.
You’re allowed to just be.
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📣 Call to Action
If you’re in the middle of the mess — parenting, partnering, teaching, supporting, growing — I see you. You’re not alone.
Share this with another woman who needs to hear it today.
If it resonated with you, leave a comment or message me. I’d love to hear your story.
We grow better when we don’t do it alone.