I just ate cold pad thai on my kitchen floor, in the dark, and it was probably the best meal I’ve had in months. The kids are finally asleep, husband is out with his friends. Silence. Actual fucking silence. It’s wild, because a year ago, sitting on the floor eating takeout was like, the definition of a sad Tuesday night. Now it feels like a goddamn luxury. Like I earned it. When did that happen? When did I become this person who craves a minute of quiet more than anything else? I used to be… I don't know. Spontaneous? Fun? I remember being in college, staying up all night, just talking shit with friends, doing whatever. Now my whole identity is just… mom. And wife. And I love my kids, I really do. They’re amazing. But sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I’m like, who the hell is that? That’s not me. That’s a tired version of me, wearing stained sweatpants, worried about nap schedules. My husband, he doesn’t get it. He comes home and asks, “So what did you *do* today?” And I just want to scream. I kept three tiny humans alive, fed, somewhat clean, and vaguely entertained. I refereed five fights, changed twelve diapers, cleaned up spilled milk three times, and tried to remember what day it is. That’s what I *did*. But it doesn’t count, does it? Not really. Not like his job counts. And I feel guilty for even thinking that. Like I should be grateful. And I am, mostly. But holy shit, I just miss *me*. Sometimes I just want to walk out the door and keep walking. Not because I don't love them, but because I just want to see if I still exist outside of them. Like, if I shed all this… mom stuff, would there be anything left? Or would I just float away? It's a scary thought. It makes me feel like a terrible person, selfish, ungrateful. But I can't shake it. This stillness right now, it’s a tiny crack in the dam, and all this other stuff just rushes in. And tomorrow it'll be back to the chaos, and I'll bury it again.