Life After Chaos: Finding Identity as a Mom and Wife

It’s 5:00 a.m., and I’m wide awake. I’m 37 years old, and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of who I am.

There was a time I thought I had it all figured out. I felt different—like I was ahead of the curve. Despite not having a degree and coming from a pretty rough childhood, I beat the odds. I had made it. A good neighborhood. A wonderful husband. A job that gave me purpose. A son who felt like the center of my universe. Life wasn’t just good—it was picture perfect.

Then everything changed.

First came COVID. Then inflation. A daughter on the way. One bad investment. And suddenly, at 34, I found myself staring at a life I no longer recognized, simmering with quiet rage.

I wasn’t “enough” anymore.

All the things that once validated me—the external markers that told me I was doing well—crumbled. And with them, so did my sense of identity.

After my lightning-bolt-of-a-daughter was born, everything shifted. I left my job. My husband started traveling more to make ends meet. And our son—thrown into a new school during the chaos of masks, six feet of distance, and virtual classrooms—struggled to find his footing, let alone make friends.

We had just bought a house with my parents, full of hope and big plans. The vision was to remodel it—turn it into something edgy, modern, timeless. But then came the pregnancy, along with relentless sickness that forced me to step away from work. My husband had to take a job on the road to keep us afloat.

Slowly, the money dried up, then the time, and lastly our dreams.

My parents are alcoholics and, truthfully, never had the most stable outlook on life—so buying a house with them was a risk from the start. But at the time, I didn’t think I could have more kids due to past complications. I saw it as an opportunity: a way to give my parents a place to settle down while my husband and I planned for the future.

Once our son went off to college, it was supposed to be just the two of us again. I figured by 40, we’d be free to travel, explore, live. We thought we had our whole lives ahead of us.

AAnyway, with not enough income to cover the house, a newborn in my arms, a husband constantly on the road, and a son navigating puberty, things quickly went south with my parents. They kept asking for money and kept drinking, even as we struggled to feed our baby (I couldn’t breastfeed—long story) and scrape together enough for school supplies.

Eventually, I’d had enough. I took what little we had, told my husband we were leaving, found the first place we could—even though we couldn’t afford it—and got the hell out of that mess.

I didn’t care how it affected anyone else. All I could think about was giving my kids a safe, stable place to grow up. And if I’m being honest, if I had stayed any longer, I might’ve lost control. The quiet rage was building—festering. That fierce, protective “mama bear” instinct had kicked in, and every part of me was screaming to shut down anything or anyone threatening my children’s well-being.

And now, here I am—three years later. Life looks completely different, yet I still have no idea who I am.

Who am I as a mom? As a woman? As a wife? As a person?

I guess that’s why I’m here: to figure it out.

So come along with me. Listen to the messy, honest, ridiculous, beautiful story of my life with this graceful, gritty family of mine. Watch as I keep turning everything upside down—until it finally feels right-side up… or maybe upside down again.