How I Lost Myself in Motherhood and Found Myself Again

How I Lost Myself in Motherhood and Found Myself Again

When I think back to the time when I became a mother, I’m humbled to say it wasn’t a magical awakening that opened me up to some new incredible love. I didn’t have a great realization that life was suddenly more beautiful than it had been before. It was, without question, the most difficult period of my life.

I remember the day I went into labor, February 23, 2013. I was out shopping at a strip mall when I slipped on some ice. I was fine, a little sore on my left leg, but otherwise unscathed. Then, on the way home, I realized I had “wet myself.” My water had broken.

It wasn’t the dramatic movie-style gush, more of a slow drip. As a first-time mom, I wasn’t even sure if it was happening. So, to be safe, Mike and I drove forty-five minutes to the hospital. As you may have guessed, my water had indeed broken, and the doctor advised inducing labor to prevent infection.

Proud, and perhaps a bit naïve, I initially refused the epidural. My mom never used one, and I was determined to follow her lead. I had been a collegiate swimmer, after all. I could handle pain. Surely if I could manage three-hour workouts in a cold pool at five in the morning, I could handle this.

Well, I was wrong. About ten hours into what became a nineteen-hour labor, I gave in. That was the beginning of a long season of letting go, of pride, perfectionism, and my ideas about what motherhood was supposed to look like.

When they placed McKinley in my arms, all ten fingers and toes perfect and wiggling, I felt pure relief. We did it. She was here. She was healthy. Then she started to cry, and she didn’t stop.

That peaceful hospital period so many parents describe, the one where the baby sleeps soundly in the bassinet while family visits and everyone revels over the new arrival, never happened for us. When the nurses took McKinley to the nursery for her exams, hoping to give us a short break, they returned an hour later to ask if she could eat because she still hadn’t stopped crying. They were at a loss for the reason. All the tests came back clear and she was, for all intents and purposes, healthy.

Those first months were brutal. We took turns pacing the floor through the night, stealing bits of sleep when we could. It was a constant mix of exhaustion, frustration, and fear. My hormones were all over the place, and nobody had prepared me for how that would feel. Everyone talks about “bouncing back” physically, but what we really need is honesty about how lost, overwhelmed, and confused new mothers can feel. I was grieving the woman I’d been and struggling to find my footing in this new role. Postpartum depression didn’t creep in; it took over.

McKinley’s colic consumed our days. We lived in Missouri then, far from family. Our parents were supportive but just as unsure as we were. I pushed our pediatrician for answers. She ordered allergy testing, which revealed a milk protein allergy, so we switched to a sensitive formula. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. She still cried and refused to eat. By six months, she weighed just eight pounds. Hearing the phrase failure to thrive nearly broke me.

She was also diagnosed with torticollis, a condition that develops when a baby’s head tilts to one side because the neck muscles are tight or shortened, likely from her position in utero. We had to start physical therapy right away to loosen and stretch those muscles, and you can imagine how much our already fussy baby loved that. I remember sitting on the soft mat beside the therapist as she gently pulled McKinley’s head to the opposite side, trying to ease the tension while she screamed. I remember thinking, Is this my life now?

After another desperate appointment, we were referred to a GI specialist in St. Louis. We turned it into a small adventure with a night in a hotel, pizza in bed, and a moment to breathe before the appointment. But the car ride there was miserable. She screamed the entire way. At one point, defeated, I kicked (and broke) the car door, a moment Mike and I half-laugh about now. “Remember when you kicked in my car door?” he’ll say. Sure do. I’m a better person now because of that phase.

The doctor at St. Louis Children’s Hospital was our saving grace. The diagnosis was silent reflux. A new medication, a formula thickened with oatmeal, and a little olive oil for calories finally helped. Day by day, she began to gain weight. Sleep came in waves, and slowly, we regained our sanity. By her first birthday, her smiles outnumbered her cries.

That first year changed everything. Leaving my job to care for McKinley is a decision I’ve never questioned, but it came with an identity shift I hadn’t expected. The feeding schedules, the financial strain, the numbness, all broke down the foundation I had created for myself. I wasn’t just rebuilding my energy; I was rebuilding myself.

Running became my way back. One mile at a time, I found space to breathe and remember who I was before the storm hit. I earned my fitness instructor certification, a small, tangible reminder that I could still contribute in a way that felt familiar. As McKinley’s health improved, I began freelancing with a local media partner, writing during nap times, reconnecting with editors, and slowly rediscovering myself.

The addition of McKinley forced us to reexamine our situation. We wanted to be closer to family. Missouri put us ten hours from mine and fifteen from Mike’s. The most stable route was for Mike to request a relocation with his company. We had hoped for a larger city with more career opportunities, but fate took us to Terre Haute, Indiana, a community of about 58,000.

Terre Haute was small and quiet, the opposite of the career-driven world I’d once envisioned for myself. But the place I resisted most became one of the most formative chapters of my life.

My mom’s best advice during that time was to “find your Y.” We had grown up in the YMCA. I taught swim lessons at the facility in my hometown of Fort Wayne and volunteered in high school to help build the playground near our house. The Y had always been a part of our family story. My parents made health and community a priority, encouraging us to stay active not just for ourselves but for the people we loved. My mom also reminded me to take advantage of the child care at the Y, to give myself a few minutes to breathe, move, and enjoy something as simple as a hot shower.

So, I found the Y and signed up. During my first few days there, I sat down with the Director at the time to talk about the organization and some of the great things she had planned. I shared a bit about my marketing background, and she asked if I’d be interested in helping her put together a monthly newsletter. I was thrilled. Then she asked if I’d consider teaching a group fitness class.

She saw something in me before I did. Her encouragement gave me the confidence to lead and put myself out there again. My classes became my community. I met other parents, moms who were tired, hopeful, and determined, just like me. We ran together in the mornings, sharing stories about the challenges of parenthood. Those runs were therapy, a reminder that we were still human, not just mothers trying to hold it all together. That group encouraged me to run my first half marathon, which eventually led to a series of races, including a sprint triathlon. Step by step, I began to find myself again, in a new form and at a new pace.

As a way to show my gratitude for the Director’s encouragement and to give back to my new community, I joined the Parent Advisory Committee. I always encourage people to find a way to be of service, especially during seasons of growth or uncertainty. It helps you stay grounded and connected to something larger than yourself. Stepping outside your own head brings perspective. It shifts the question from “why me?” to “how can I help?”

During this phase, I also began freelancing for the local newspaper, covering community stories and local events. Between teaching, writing, and raising McKinley, life began to feel full again and intentional. I was growing in a new direction and finally finding my footing. As McKinley got older and started sleeping through the night, that small gift of rest was life-changing.

Years later, when leadership changed at the YMCA, I stepped into a new role as Director of Marketing and Membership. Opportunity comes in the most unexpected places. Each step I took after having McKinley, from freelancing in Missouri to teaching that first group exercise class in Terre Haute, helped me find my way back to myself.

Looking back, I can see how much motherhood shaped the person I am today. That experience was the starting point for a career in storytelling and a life structured around purpose instead of pressure. I learned that purpose is built in pieces, through sleepless nights, persistence, reinvention, and people who believe in you before you do.

If I have any advice for those of you in your own messy middle right now, it’s this: when you’re lost in that difficult in-between phase of life, keep working to find yourself. Don’t settle for circumstances that don’t serve you. You can’t serve your family or your community if you don’t first serve yourself. Put your oxygen mask on, even if it’s in the middle of the crash.

Terre Haute taught me that your situation is what you make of it. You can resist it, or you can let it refine you. Every race I ran, every story I wrote, every class I taught added another piece to who I was becoming and how I got to where I am today, running Erin Gregory Creative and owning my time and story.

Change will always come, but growth isn’t about speed or perfection. It’s about direction and persistence. And if you can stay open to where the middle takes you, the messy, unpredictable, difficult middle, you’ll find that’s where purpose often begins.

5 Things That Actually Helped Me Survive New Motherhood

A practical guide from someone who’s been there

Looking back at those early years, I wish someone had given me permission to do these things without the guilt. Here’s what actually made a difference:

1. Protect Your “Alone Time” Like It’s Sacred (Because It Is)

The trending advice about “self-care” often feels like another item on an impossible to-do list. But here’s what worked: I stopped trying to carve out hour-long spa sessions and started protecting 15 minutes of completely uninterrupted time each day. Sometimes it was a long shower at the Y before I picked her up from the childcare center. Sometimes it was sitting in my car for ten minutes after arriving home. The point wasn’t what I did, it was that nobody needed anything from me during that window.

Try this: Put it in your calendar like any other appointment. Tell your partner it’s non-negotiable. You’re not being selfish; you’re preventing burnout.

2. Find Your “Third Space” (It Doesn’t Have to Be the Gym)

The Y became my lifeline, but your third space, the place that’s neither work nor home, can be anywhere. It’s a coffee shop where you write for an hour. A walking group. A book club. A climbing gym. The magic isn’t in the activity itself; it’s in having a physical place where you’re not “Mom” or “Employee” for a moment. You’re just you.

Why it matters: Research shows that having a “third space” significantly reduces parental burnout and helps maintain your sense of identity outside caregiving roles.

3. Build Your “Good Enough” List

Perfectionism nearly destroyed me in those early months. What saved me was creating a “Good Enough List”, the absolute minimum standards I could live with on hard days. Frozen pizza for dinner? Good enough. Wearing the same yoga pants three days in a row? Good enough. McKinley watching an extra episode of Sesame Street so I could finish a work email? Good enough.

The shift: Instead of measuring yourself against Instagram highlight reels, define what “good enough” actually means for your family. Then give yourself credit for meeting that bar.

4. Schedule “Connection Moments” Before They Disappear

Between McKinley’s health issues and our exhaustion, Mike and I nearly became ships passing in the night. What saved our marriage was scheduling connection, whatever that meant in the moment. Sunday morning coffee together while McKinley watched cartoons. A quick show in the evening after she went to bed. One date night per month (the YMCA hosted Parents Night Out events - these were invaluable).

Real talk: Scheduled connection feels less spontaneous, but it’s better than no connection at all. Once you’re through the hardest phase, spontaneity will return. Until then, protect what you can.

5. Say Yes to the “Small” Offers

When people asked how they could help, I used to default to “we’re fine, thanks.” But the people who helped most were the ones who made specific, small offers I could actually say yes to: “I’m going to Target, text me if you need anything.” “I made extra lasagna, I’m dropping it by at 6.” “Can I hold the baby while you take a shower?”

Action step: Keep a running list on your phone of small, helpful things people could do. When someone offers help, refer to the list instead of trying to think on the spot. Most people genuinely want to help, they just don’t know how.

The truth is, there’s no magic formula that works for everyone. But these practices helped me move from surviving to building something intentional. They might not all work for you, and that’s okay. Take what resonates, leave the rest, and give yourself permission to figure out what “good enough” looks like in your own messy middle.

Erin Gregory Creative is the studio of Erin Gregory, a writer, marketing strategist, and full-time communications and branding consultant for mission-driven leaders.

As host of Notes from the Messy Middle, a podcast on Substack exploring creativity, communication, and intentional living, Erin connects personal growth with strategic storytelling, helping people and brands speak with more clarity and purpose.

Read more at www.eringregorycreative.com or connect on LinkedIn.