Hello, Hot Mama,

Let’s talk about autonomy in motherhood.
Or really—the lack thereof.

The loss of individuality, autonomy, selfhood (whatever label you want to slap on it) is something no one warns you about. Not the pregnancy books. Not the birthing classes. Not even the other moms—the ones deep in the trenches or the ones who’ve emerged on the other side.

It just… gets lost in the shuffle.

And in a way, I get it. Because we get lost in the shuffle. Motherhood is overwhelming and messy and consuming. There’s no syllabus, no sick days, no quiet exit, no recess. You’re in it—body, brain, soul.

But then there are those rare days when your brain manages to function above 30%, and maybe—just maybe—you try to say something about it. You voice the ache, the disorientation, the loss of the woman you used to be. You cry and sigh and just need someone to look at you—really look at you—without pity, and say:

“I get it. This is really hard. You matter. And you’re doing a great job.”

And instead, you’re met with:

“They’re only this little for so long.”
“You’ll miss these days when they’re older.”
“It’s just a season.”
“The days are long, but the years are short.”

All of which are true—yes.
But also?

Can we just stop for a second and let the hot mama mourn her former self?

Can we hold space for the woman who isn’t cursing motherhood—but who misses herself? Can we stop interpreting that grief as ungratefulness?

Because I promise you: she adores her kids. She’s just wondering where she went. And how does she get herself back? Is that even plausible?

So instead of platitudes, how about some practical grace?

Like:

“Hey, I can take the kids for four hours. Go do you—whatever that looks like.”

“Hey, I’m coming over and I’m bringing Taco Bell. What do you want?”

Or—husbands, take notes:

“Babe, I’ve got bedtime tonight.”
“Don’t worry about dinner—I got it.”

You want to know what’s sexy?
Initiative(!!).
Support.
Time.
Recognition.

Not because she isn’t strong.
Not because she lacks support (or maybe she does).
But because the mental load of being everyone’s somebody is relentless and exhausting.

She needs someone to be her somebody.

Keep going — mess and all.


With you always,

Rachel