To know where you are going, you first have to know where you are. This is a truth so obvious it feels like something Confucius might have muttered after a particularly satisfying lunch, but it’s also a truth I’ve been grappling with lately. Somehow, I’ve managed to stumble from 2014 to 2025 with all the grace and clarity of someone trying to find their glasses while wearing them on their head. The years have passed in a blur, and the culprit, I suspect, is motherhood—a phenomenon that seems to simultaneously rob you of your sanity while gifting you moments so absurdly wonderful they make you question whether sanity was ever necessary in the first place.

Let me be clear: I love my kids. I love them so much that if licking them were socially acceptable, I’d be first in line. They are hilarious little creatures, full of quirks and chaos. But—and here’s the part where I feel compelled to duck for cover—I wouldn’t do it again if given the chance. Not because they aren’t delightful (they are), but because motherhood is less a journey and more an endurance test disguised as a Hallmark card. Since their arrival, sleep has become a distant memory, like an old friend who moved away and stopped returning your calls. Eleven years without sleep—imagine that. It’s not just inconvenient; it’s practically a science experiment.

The funny thing is that while my life seemed to unravel in the wake of parenthood, my children somehow stitched me back together in ways I didn’t expect. After my stroke—a terrifying event that left me questioning everything about myself—they reminded me of who I was, or at least who I could still be. Depression has since taken its toll on my fragile brain, leaving me feeling like a poorly assembled IKEA shelf: functional but precariously balanced.

And so here I am, pondering reinvention—a word that sounds far more glamorous than it feels. Reinventing oneself is tricky business when you’re not entirely sure where you stand to begin with. How can you chart a course forward if you don’t even know your starting point? It’s like trying to navigate with a map of Narnia when what you really need is Google Maps.

The truth is, I don’t always like myself. In fact, most days I feel like a terrible person—a sentiment that’s both exhausting and oddly comforting in its consistency. Misunderstood? Certainly. But also deeply flawed in ways that make me wonder if reinvention is even possible or if I’m simply destined to muddle along as I am.

Still, there’s something oddly liberating about acknowledging all this messiness—the sleepless nights, the existential crises, the moments of joy so profound they make your heart ache. Life isn’t tidy; it’s a sprawling, chaotic narrative full of plot twists and questionable character development. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe knowing where you are—messy and imperfect as it may be—is enough to start figuring out where you’re going next.