artificial insemination syringe
I became invisible on May 13, 2013. I remember it vividly—lying in a shared hospital room after an emergency C-section, attempting to rest while chaos swirled around me. Family members were loudly announcing the birth of my daughters, Lily and Mia. Nurses entered frequently, poking and prodding me, drawing blood, and checking my pads every few hours, regardless of whether I was awake. Friends came to meet the newborns, barging into my room while I was half-dressed and attempting to pump. Estranged relatives appeared, having seen the announcement online.
I had been abruptly taken from my comfortable labor room and wheeled into a sterile operating room, where my babies were delivered. I was then moved to a bland recovery area, alone and drifting in and out of consciousness, anxious about my children’s health and begging for water—only to be told to wait. Eventually, I was settled into a room with just a curtain for privacy, where I was constantly examined and visited, leaving no room for my own recovery or desires.
Gradually, I felt as if I had been chipped away. It became painfully clear how little my needs mattered, how insignificant my identity had become. It wasn’t just others diminishing me; I willingly surrendered pieces of myself, thinking that selflessness was the essence of motherhood as society suggests.
A couple of years later, I realized I had stopped looking at myself in the mirror. When I finally did, I was shocked. Who was this woman staring back at me? My life seemed consumed by my children. Every choice I made revolved around them. My existence was defined by their needs—cooking, cleaning, worrying, and caring for them.
When I interact with others, the first question is always about my daughters, “How are Lily and Mia?” It’s become routine. I glance down at my worn clothes, part of a cycle of five outfits that still fit. My body feels foreign after childbirth; my hips have widened, my hair has thinned, and I deal with daily discomforts. I struggle to find time for cleaning or cooking while our lives revolve around our children. Days pass without even a moment to connect with my partner.
I feel frumpier than ever. The limited funds we have go to ensuring our children have what they need—shoes, food, electronics. The cycle feels endless. Meanwhile, I’m utterly invisible. Visitors come, and my children are the main attraction; I can’t recall the last uninterrupted adult conversation I had. Often, I retreat to another room to escape the noise.
I love my kids deeply, but I am not solely defined by motherhood. I cherish silence, the sound of birds, and engaging discussions with interesting people late into the night. I miss the feeling of being asked for my opinion and enjoying quiet moments with a good book or in nature.
I revel in long hikes, getting lost in the woods until dusk falls, feeling small under the stars, and finding vintage treasures while thrifting. I adore simple pleasures like pedicures and good pizza in cozy spots. Yet, I also treasure the joy my daughters bring—their laughter, their affection, and the bond we share as they grow into strong, independent women.
I am Lily and Mia’s mother, but I am also the spirited woman who once filled rooms with her presence and dreams. I am a mother, but I am still me. Beneath the worn clothes and chipped nails, I am here, waiting for someone to notice me again, longing to reclaim the life I once envisioned for myself.
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