I Love Being a Mum… But I Miss Her

(The woman I used to be)

Before the pram, before the nap schedules, before I became someone’s entire world, I was fully immersed in my own.

I was coming into my late twenties, and honestly? I was thriving. I’d found my tribe - the kind of friends who feel like family, who fill your group chat with chaos and laughs and links to the next pop-up wine bar you must try. I’d moved to the city. Not just the city, but Fortitude Valley. The place pulsed with energy. Cafes on every corner, hidden restaurants you only found by chance, hole-in-the-wall bars where the only seats were at the counter. I’d sit with a cocktail in hand, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, tasting something new and laughing till my stomach hurt.

I had a husband I adored, a social life I loved, a routine that was full but joyful. Life was good.

Like many women, I wrestled with the idea of motherhood. Was it really for me? Could I give up the freedom? The late nights? The version of myself I’d come to love?

We decided to try. And in our journey, we faced two early losses. The grief was real and raw, and in the quiet that followed, I couldn’t help but wonder… was this a sign? Maybe we were meant to live a different kind of life. Maybe the universe was nudging us to keep dancing through this one wild, child-free chapter.

But something still felt missing.

A soft tug at my heart that hadn’t let go.

Fast forward.

Now I’m here. A mum.

And it’s everything. The joy, the awe, the way my heart bursts just watching my little one sleep — it’s real. I wouldn’t change this for the world.

But when the group chat buzzes with plans for Friday night drinks, for gigs, for just one more rosé, I feel something else too. Not regret. Not jealousy.

Just… grief.

Grief for the girl I used to be.

The girl who said yes to spontaneous dinners, who dressed up for no reason, who danced until her hair was stuck to her neck, who collapsed on a friend’s couch at 2am with sore feet and a sore face from laughing.

Now, when those invites come in, my instinct isn’t to grab my heels. It’s to hesitate. I can’t. Not yet. My bub’s still little. Even with the world’s most trustworthy granny offering to babysit, I wasn’t ready. And honestly, I was terrified to leave the house in those early weeks, let alone go out at night.

Everything had changed.

I craved conversation. Not about sleep regressions or swaddling (though they had their place), but the kind of conversation where you lose track of time. Trivia nights. Comedy shows. Long café chats that stretch into brunch and beyond. A fancy cocktail, a grazing platter, the buzz of being around people who see you — not just as a mum, but as you.

I went to mothers groups, and while they were lovely, calm, supportive, full of wisdom, I couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place.

It was all so serene.

And I missed the messy.

I missed the silly.

I missed the sweaty dance floors, the bold laughter, the chaos of who we were before.

Becoming a mum didn’t break me. It built me.

But it also quietly rearranged every part of me, until I looked in the mirror and thought, who is she?

And while I’m so desperately happy in this season, I’m also, at the exact same time, desperately missing the thrill of the life that came before.

Two truths. One heart.

That old me? She’s still in there.

And maybe you’re feeling the same.

So if you’re reading this and nodding, if you’ve also felt this quiet ache, this strange guilt for missing a version of yourself while loving your new one, you’re not alone.

We can hold both.

Joy and longing.

Motherhood and identity.

Softness and wildness.

We’re allowed to miss her. And we’re allowed to find her again. Slowly. Differently. But no less fully.