Learning to be

I’m 38 — a mum, a wife, a teacher. When both my children started school and September rolled in, I didn’t feel relief. I felt lost. For six years, my purpose had been loud and constant. Suddenly, it was gone.

I had imagined this moment so many times. Both children at school, a little more space to breathe, time reclaimed. But when the school gates closed behind them, the house felt unfamiliar. Too quiet. I wandered from room to room, unsure what I was meant to do next.

I tried filling my time. Doing all the things I thought I should be doing. I made bread (it didn’t rise well), made homemade granola (not as tasty as shop-bought), and even signed up for a marathon (!). But underneath it all, I felt unanchored. I didn’t know who I was anymore.

Motherhood had filled every corner of my life. My days were shaped by nap times, snack requests, endless questions, small hands reaching for me. I was needed in a way that left no room for doubt about who I was. And then, almost without warning, that need changed.

I was still a mother, of course. Still needed. Just… differently.

No one really prepares you for this part. We talk about the exhaustion of early motherhood — the relentlessness, the way you lose yourself when your children are small. But we don’t talk enough about what happens when parts of you are handed back. When the doing eases and you’re left face to face with yourself again.

I realised how much of my identity had been wrapped up in caring, organising, anticipating. I had become very good at meeting everyone else’s needs. What I hadn’t learned was how to simply be — outside of them.

This blog is born out of that realisation.

Learning to Be is a space where I’m figuring out how to live well in this season of motherhood. How to nurture my children without disappearing in the process. How to show up for them not just as someone who gives endlessly, but as someone whole, grounded, and with an identity of her own.

I don’t have neat answers. I’m not chasing perfection or balance. I’m learning — slowly, imperfectly — how to listen to myself again. How to create a life that feels thoughtful and nourishing, for my children and for me.

If you’re a parent standing in a quieter house, feeling grateful and unsettled all at once, wondering who you are now that your children need you differently — you’re not alone.

I’m here too.
Learning to be.