Somewhere between the third load of laundry and the fourth spilled cup of juice on the carpet, I walked into the toilet, looked in the mirror and wondered — What is this, and where did I go?

I’m a wife. A mother to three precious souls. A homemaker. A nurturer. A giver. And I love them — fiercely. Yet it doesn’t always keep away the quiet ache, a whisper I can’t quite ignore; I miss me.

It’s not that I want to run away from this life. It’s that sometimes I wonder if I’ve been swallowed up by it.

There was a time not long ago when I felt so seen. I ran a small stationery business — The Echoes of Her Heart. It was more than paper and pretty things. It was a ministry. A space where I could pour encouragement into the hearts of Christian women through words and beauty and intentional design. It gave me a voice. It gave others hope. And in it, I felt purposeful — like I was doing something that mattered beyond my four walls.

Closing that chapter wasn’t easy. I let it go slowly, with tears and prayers, not because it stopped meaning something — but because God was shifting the season. He was calling me inward, deeper into the quiet, deeply incredible work of motherhood and building up my home. And honestly? That surrender and shift felt a little like death.

I used to feel independent. Now I ask permission just to go to the bathroom alone.

I used to feel accomplished. Now my victories are things no one sees: a meltdown calmed, a sibling fight diffused, a meal made from what looked like an empty fridge.

The world doesn’t clap for these things. And sometimes, honestly, neither do I.

But also, somewhere in the quiet, I hear a different voice — not my own, and not the world’s.

“Whoever loses their life for My sake will find it.”
— Matthew 10:39

Could it be… that what feels like losing myself is actually where I’m being found?

Not in the platforms I once held, but in the hands and hearts I now hold every day.
Not in being known, but in being faithful, loving, kind, and generous with my life in a different way.
Not in independence, but in total, daily dependence on the grace and strength of God.

I’m learning that letting go of The Echoes of Her Heart wasn’t the end of my purpose — it was a redirection. A reminder that my identity isn’t in what I produce, and not even in motherhood, but in Who holds me. And that ministry doesn’t end just because the form changes. Sometimes it just moves to the kitchen floor, the bedtime story, the sweet hugs and pecks from my sons.

This season asks more of me than I ever thought I had to give. But it’s also giving me something back — a deeper love, a stronger faith, a truer sense of self.

So no, I don’t think that I’ve lost myself in motherhood.

I’m being refined and re-defined.

Not erased. Rewritten.
Not emptied. Poured out — and filled with something better than I ever planned.

And maybe, just maybe, the version of me I’m becoming is closer to who I was made to be all along.