I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing this, or what I even hope to gain from it. It’s 2 AM and I’m staring at the baby monitor, which is silent for once. Just finished the triple feed and pump session. (Thank God for the hands-free bra, honestly). My husband is snoring softly next to me, probably dreaming about artisanal sourdough or some new glaze for a fruit tart. And I’m just… here. Looking at the dark. Trying to pinpoint this feeling. It’s not sadness, not exactly. More like a pervasive sense of… counterfactual regret? (I looked it up, yeah, that’s it.) It’s the feeling of wondering if the alternate universe version of me, the one who actually stuck with culinary school, is happier. I mean, I love my kids. I DO. That’s the most important thing. But sometimes, when I’m pureeing another batch of sweet potatoes or scrubbing baby food off the wall, I just… wonder. It's this specific imagery that always gets me. My husband and I, we met at Le Cordon Bleu. (My parents were NOT thrilled, let’s just say that.) He was SO passionate about baking, and I was… drawn to the precision, the chemistry of it all. The way a perfect emulsion comes together. We used to talk for hours about opening our own patisserie, a little place with bright yellow walls and the smell of cardamom. Our 'someday' plan. And then life happened. My mom got sick, and the logical, RESPONSIBLE path was to finish my degree, get a 'real' job. So I pivoted. And here I am. (And my husband, bless his heart, is still baking, but it’s for *us* now, not for a livelihood. Which, again, I appreciate! But it's different.) It’s not that I’m UNHAPPY, per se. It’s just this persistent background hum of… what if? Like a dissonance in my internal monologue. I guess what it boils down to is, are we allowed to mourn lives we didn't live? Even when the life we *are* living is objectively good, even *privileged*? I feel immense guilt even thinking this. I have two healthy children, a loving husband, a house that smells faintly of cinnamon. But there’s this phantom limb sensation for the chef’s whites, the heat of the oven, the adrenaline of a busy morning service. The *identity* of it. I sometimes scroll through food blogs, seeing people my age running successful bakeries, and it feels like a punch to the gut. Not envy, not really. More like… recognition. A glimpse of a self I abandoned. And I just don't know what to do with that. It just *is*. And it’s EXHAUSTING.