I joke with my sons sometimes that they do not own me, but of course they won’t understand the complexity of losing identity in motherhood.

If you’re a parent, especially a parent of boys, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about.

My sons are at that age where they still want access to me all the time. If I’m sitting down, they’re sitting down. They following me when I’m walking somewhere. If I’m in my room, they’re knocking on the door. When I head out, they want to know where I’m going, when I’ll be back, and whether they can come too.

And to be clear, I love it.

I’m obsessed with them.

And they are, in many ways, obsessed with me.

But every now and then I have to remind them of something important.

“Guys, mommy is more than your mommy.”

Usually they laugh when I say it. Sometimes they roll their eyes. Sometimes they immediately launch into an argument for why they should, in fact, have unlimited access to me.

But underneath the joke is a truth I want them to learn.

And if I’m honest, it’s a truth I’ve had to learn too.

The people and things we love will take as much of us as we allow them to.

Not because they are selfish or demanding.

Not because they are trying to take something from us.

Simply because that is the nature of love.

Love expands us.

It reaches out.

Love asks for connection.

And if we don’t create boundaries, even the things we cherish most can slowly consume the space where we exist as ourselves.

For years, I thought my exhaustion came from doing too much.

I thought I needed more time.

As though I could organize more.

Be more efficient.

Get more help.

The thing missing from my life was my own life.

And while all of those things had some truth to them, I eventually realized something much deeper was happening.

That sounds dramatic, but stay with me.

I wasn’t missing my responsibilities.

I had all of the things: I wasn’t missing my children, my career, or my home.

In fact, I had spent years building them.

What I was missing was me inside of all of it.

Somewhere along the way, I had become the steward of my life instead of a participant in it.

I was managing it.

Protecting it.

Holding it together.

Coordinating it.

Maintaining it.

But I wasn’t always experiencing it.

And there is a difference.

A huge difference.

When you’re carrying the awareness of a household, your mind is rarely still. You’re thinking about what needs to happen next. Before you know it, you’re anticipating problems, remembering details, planning meals, tracking schedules. You’re mentally carrying a thousand invisible responsibilities that nobody else sees.

Doesn’t it even sound exhausting?

The strange thing is that after a while, it starts to feel normal.

You stop noticing how your attention is always divided.

Your life has quietly become something you’re operating instead of something you’re living.

That’s why I don’t think survival mode always looks like chaos.

Sometimes survival mode looks like competence.

It can look like a woman who has everything under control.

Sometimes it looks like a woman who is accomplishing all the things she said she wanted.

And yet, something still feels missing.

For me, what was missing was presence.

It was the ability to walk through my life and actually experience it.

One of the reasons I smile so much more these days is because I keep bumping into reminders that I don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

Not big reminders.

Tiny ones.

A new scent in the house.

Flowers blooming outside that I didn’t plant.

A room that feels refreshed.

Fruit washed and drying on the counter.

Fresh bedding on one of the boys’ beds.

A thoughtful detail that appeared without my involvement.

Every one of those moments creates the same feeling.

Not gratitude.

Not relief.

Something deeper.

Presence.

Because in those moments, I’m not managing life.

I’m experiencing it.

I’m enjoying it and I’m participating in it.

And I think that’s what I had been missing all along.

Not time, productivity, or even more support.

Just my own life.

I think many nurturers know exactly what I’m talking about.

You love your family deeply.

Obviously, you love your children, your partner, and the home you all share.

But somewhere along the way, you become so focused on creating a beautiful life for everyone else that you stop fully inhabiting it yourself.

You become the caretaker of the experience rather than someone who gets to enjoy the experience too.

And perhaps that’s the hidden cost of carrying life alone.

You lose access to your own life while you’re busy holding it together.

That realization has changed the way I think about support.

For years, I thought support was about getting help.

Today, I think support is about getting access.

Access to your own life.

Remembering your joy.

Accessing your powerful presence.

Access to the version of yourself that exists beyond your responsibilities.

Because my sons are right about one thing.

I am their mommy.

And I always will be.

But I am also a woman.

A dreamer.

A builder.

A traveler.

A friend.

A creator.

A human being with a life that deserves to be experienced, not just managed.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

The goal is not to stop loving the life you’ve built.

The goal is to make sure there’s still enough of you left to live it.