By Claudia Caramiello 
All around the house: Size 10 sneakers, oversized hoodies, half-full water bottles, and blunt little hairs all over the sink. There are gelatinous globs of toothpaste on the counter. What happened to the good scissors? What happened to any of the scissors? Where are all the forks?
All in my head: Am I enough? Will they be close to me when they’re in their thirties? Who left the half-eaten apple on the counter? Why is the water pitcher broken? What happened to the toilet seat?
All in my heart: How can I get him to quit vaping? Should I have been stricter? Am I a good mom? Are they happy? Will they call me when they’re older? Do they know how much I adore them?
They dominate my conversations—my boys. My sons. I’m a boy mom. My kids. They did this. They didn’t do that. I’m worried about this one. That one is doing great. Now he isn’t. The other one is doing really well. Now I’m worried about that one. My youngest. The older one.
It’s all-consuming. Every day. My brain is juggling thoughts, feelings, emotions, all carrying one overarching theme: my children. And despite them being young adults, it doesn’t change the way I operate. It’s as if I’m on autopilot. I have lived and still live for my children.
But…
Slowly, I’m noticing something else happening in my life. Like patches of sunlight peeking out from a cloudy sky, I am seeing signs of myself, and they are becoming more visible and prominent, offering a glimpse of who I was and reminding me that she’s still here.
Signs of myself were muted for some time as I lost myself in the trappings of motherhood. It was an incredibly interesting experience, as I became both lost and found in the act of mothering. I relished the feeling of being needed as well as being terrified by it. Nurturing was second nature and so intensely rewarding and deeply difficult at the same time. Giving up a large part of myself felt like a choice, most of the time.
I often wondered and worried who I would be when the kids were grown. Sometimes I felt like a shell of the woman I once was. Used up. Done. Like the flamingos who lose their pink coloring while they tend to their offspring, my own hue had faded to a paler version. Paler, yes, but not completely gone.
I see signs of myself.
All around the house: Pink salt and pepper shakers, bubblegum-colored cookware, Pretty glass tumblers with rosy coquette bows. A favorite pistachio and caramel body spray in the bathroom. My small, baby pink journal with actual prose in it. A night out with friends marked on the calendar.
All in my head: Maybe I AM enough. And they will be okay even if I am not perfect.
All in my heart: I AM a good mom. I did the best I could, and I will continue doing my best, despite my flaws, struggles, and shortcomings. I will tell them every day I love them. I will hope they are close with me when they’re older, and foster an atmosphere that creates a sense of belonging and warmth.
I will also continue to nurture the person I so often forget about, so that I can continue to see signs of myself.
by Katelyn Washington 
by Holly Dignen 
by Caroline Murray 
