The Empty Space They Leave Behind
“Motherhood changes the shape of your days long before you realize it’s changed the shape of you.”
The Shift You Don’t See Coming
I took my younger girls to get the oil changed this morning, after dropping my oldest off at school. It’s become part of our rhythm—one child stepping into the world, two still tucked beside me.
But lately, I’ve been noticing something I didn’t expect.
A strange space.
A quiet gap.
A subtle awareness that someone is missing.
And the truth is, I felt this the very first day my eldest went to school. The whole morning felt surreal—moving through a half-day routine without her presence, watching the rhythm of our world tip just slightly off its axis.
How Motherhood Fills (and Stretches) Your Identity
Whenever someone asks about my girls’ ages while we’re out—at the park, the store, anywhere—I always mention all three. Even if only two are with me. It slips out naturally, like an instinct. As if leaving one out makes the picture incomplete.
And on the rare days I’m alone—waiting for a morning mammogram, sitting in a salon chair, running errands—I find myself giving context:
“I’m tired… I’m a mom of three little ones.”
Or I catch myself pulling out photos without thinking.
It’s not to justify myself. Not to prove anything.
It’s that motherhood has become the language I speak to introduce who I am.
When the World Sees Only Part of You
When all my children are around me, the world immediately sees a mother. There’s no question. It’s in the diaper bag, the snacks shoved in my pockets, the way the girls cling to my legs.
But when I move through the world without them, I sometimes wonder:
What does the world see then?
A woman in line at the mechanic?
Someone tired in a medical waiting room?
Someone who looks like she has free time, even if she doesn’t?
This isn’t a crisis of identity. I’m not wondering who I am without them. I know exactly who I am.
But I’m noticing how deeply motherhood has woven itself into the way I show up. Even in silence. Even in spaces where no one else knows.
Motherhood as a Root System
What I keep coming back to is this: my children ground me.
Not in a way that limits or holds me back.
In the way roots ground a tree—steadying it, giving it strength, letting it grow upward and outward.
They are now part of my internal architecture. A permanent shaping. An invisible outline. A truth I carry everywhere, even when my hands are suddenly, surprisingly, empty.
Learning to Walk With and Without Them
Maybe this strange space I’m feeling is simply the beginning of a new chapter—one child stepping out, two still held close, someday all three moving into their own worlds.
Motherhood is always shifting.
Always expanding and contracting.
Always teaching us how to walk both with our children and without them, in small ways, long before anyone ever tells us how.
Because once you’re a mother, you’re always a mother.
Not because the world sees it.
But because it becomes part of who you are—quietly, irrevocably, beautifully.