I’ve been feeling like a shadow lately.
Not quite here, not quite there…just… hiding.
And it’s not intentional, really.
But somehow, almost three years after having my son, I feel like I’ve become invisible.
Not in the poetic, “I’m overlooked and mysterious” kind of way.
No. I mean, I’ve literally been dressing to disappear.
Baggy sweats. Oversized shirts. No makeup. Hair tied back in the same lazy bun every day.
And it’s not because it’s “comfort” anymore.
But because it hides everything I don’t want people to see.
The truth is, I don’t recognize my body.
And I know, I KNOW…. It’s been years since I had the baby.
I should have bounced back by now, right? There’s no “just had a baby” excuse anymore.
However, the bounce never came and still hasn’t come.
And lately, I’ve started to wonder:
Do I have body dysmorphia? Or is this just how motherhood rewrites you?
This morning, I looked in the mirror and told myself,
Enough.
I decided to take my son for a walk.
He’s been under the weather, daycare’s not an option, and honestly, neither is the treadmill when he’s tugging at me all day.
So, I threw on my usual sweatpants uniform, slapped on some sunscreen (because God forbid I skip it after reading how glycolic acid messes up your skin in the sun), and pushed myself out the door.
The thing is… I hate working out.
I don’t get that dopamine high people talk about.
And I miss the days when my metabolism handled everything for me, back in my 20s when I could eat whatever, barely try, and still slip into tight jeans without thinking twice.
Now, every step feels like I’m dragging disappointment with me.
Why did I let myself get like this?
Why can’t I just snap out of it?
How long is “grace” supposed to last?
Halfway through the walk, my son’s giggling in the stroller.
The breeze is nice. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a car window.
My face is ghost white.
I forgot to rub in the sunscreen.
And not just a little.
I mean, full-on clown mask white.
And all I could do was laugh.
Not because it was funny.
But because somehow, it felt like the perfect metaphor.
I’ve been walking around trying to be invisible, but now here I am, the most noticeable person on the block, with a streaky, blotchy face.
When I got home, I wiped it off.
But I kept thinking…
What else am I walking around carrying that everyone else can see, but I’ve convinced myself they can’t?
Maybe it’s the insecurity.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion.
Or the fear of never feeling “like myself” again.
But maybe the real issue isn’t how others see me. It’s how I keep trying to erase myself before anyone even gets the chance.