I Forgot What I Love

This is about the identity shift no one talks about after motherhood — the one where you forget what lights you up.

We’re back from three weeks of travel - a big family wedding in India, two kids in tow, 18.5 hours on a plane each way.
I should feel accomplished. And in some ways, I do.

But it wasn’t a vacation.
It was logistics.
It was showing up… as a wife, mom, daughter, daughter-in-law, sister-in-law, and friend.

It was beautiful and chaotic.
But somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized something: I had no space for myself.

I packed two books — Neha Ruch’s Power Pause and Simon Squibb’s Do You Have a Dream? — both of which had been calling out to me for weeks.
I read two pages.
Not two chapters.
Two pages.

At the time, I brushed it off. It was a busy trip, I told myself.
There was no time and too much to do.

But once we got back - jetlagged, the kids home for spring break, me falling sick — it hit harder:

I didn’t just lose momentum.
I lost a part of myself.
I parked my needs behind everyone else’s.

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When I’m planning household operations, organizing events, or managing the chaos of daily life, I feel on it. Capable.
Even when I’m talking about user research and service design - ask me about the 3-day healthcare workshop I ran to define vision, goals, and timelines, and I’ll light up.

But when someone asks me:

“What do you enjoy doing?”
“What are your dreams right now?”

…I pause.
I don’t have an answer.
And that feels scary.

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Just yesterday, sitting on the bleachers at gymnastics class, a mom friend and I were talking about this exact thing.

We want to be there, watching our girls wave at us from the mat, proudly showing off their new skills.
These are the moments we don’t want to miss.
This is the good stuff.

And yet, there’s guilt.
Maybe we’re wasting time.
Maybe we’re not doing enough.
Things fall off the plate no matter what stage we’re in.

There’s this pressure - societal, internal, invisible but constant - to always be doing more.
For our families.
For ourselves.
For the version of us we used to be… or the one we should’ve become by now.

It’s like living with one eye on the moment and one eye on the clock.

Where does that pressure even come from?
Why is being present not enough?

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As if the identity gods were listening, I happened to tune into Mel Robbins’ recent podcast on feeling behind in life — and wow, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

She talked about the unrealistic timelines we carry — the “social clocks” that whisper we’re failing if we’re not “there” by a certain age.

I felt so seen.
So relieved.

Because I’ve been in that mental trap lately.
And it’s exhausting.
And it’s not true.

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Here’s the reality:

✅ 43% of highly qualified women with children leave the workforce at some point in their careers.
✅ Of those who want to return, more than half say they struggle to get hired due to the so-called “career gap.”
✅ A study in the American Journal of Sociology found that mothers were 47% less likely to receive callbacks than non-mothers with identical resumes.

And yet - if you zoom in - the story is completely different.

Motherhood is project management.
It’s emotional regulation, negotiation, logistics, crisis response, creative direction, and leadership - on loop, 24/7.
It’s just not labeled that way.

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So I’m learning (again) to give myself grace.
To understand that my “enough” doesn’t have to look like someone else’s.

To know that it’s not about choosing between presence or ambition — it’s about figuring out how to hold both.
Even if it’s clumsy.
Even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

Right now, I’m just trying to remember who I am underneath all the roles I play.

It’s uncomfortable.
But it feels like a start.

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Have you felt this too?

That moment when someone asks what you want, and you realize you’re not even sure anymore?
That weird, weighty silence?

If you’ve felt it too, I’d love to hear from you.
Maybe we don’t need answers just yet - maybe we just need to name it, together.

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Thank you for being here and holding space for this reflection.
— Akriti

P.S. If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. Hit reply, leave a comment, or just let it sit with you for now. Either way, you’re not alone.