Mutha Magazine Author Z Page

I remember staring at a photo of myself from a year prior. I was at a dive bar, laughing, wearing a stained band t-shirt, drinking a cheap beer. I looked… light. Unburdened. I felt a pang of grief so sharp it shocked me. I wasn't sad for the baby. I was sad for her . The woman who could sleep in until noon. The woman who didn't know what “cluster feeding” meant.

In the first six months, I watched the furniture of my former self get sold off piece by piece. First went the ability to read a book for more than three consecutive minutes. Auctioned. Then went the memory of what it felt like to be bored—that luxurious, lazy Saturday afternoon boredom. Gone. Finally, the big items: my professional ambition, my sense of humor about my own body, and the quiet belief that I was fundamentally in control of my life. mutha magazine author z

I realized I had been mourning a ghost. That woman at the dive bar? She didn't die. She transformed. And transformation is not polite. It is not pretty. It is a caterpillar dissolving into goo inside a cocoon before anything useful emerges. I remember staring at a photo of myself from a year prior