It's rising up again. That hot, burning feeling in my stomach. If I were to let it, this feeling would creep up through my chest and find its voice. But I would immediately regret anything it said aloud.

And all because my husband asked, "Honey, when will you be able to watch your programs and get them off the TiVo?" He, of course, asked this in a moment when I was rushing to get back to our 2-year-old, who was screaming repeatedly, "Mommy, where are you?!" and I wanted to shout at my husband, "WHEN?! WHEN?! WHEN OUR 2-YEAR-OLD IS IN COLLEGE! THAT'S WHEN I WILL HAVE TIME TO WATCH TV AGAIN!" But I didn't. Because I knew this had been a bad week. I had not had a single moment of alone time. I had lost myself in the Land of Mommydom yet again, and I was drowning.

My husband and I were the last ones in our friend group to have a kid. We waited a long time because we knew it would be a huge change, and we wanted to be totally sure that we were able to be the loving parents we wanted to be. I was nervous to become a mother because I saw how much it changed my friends—and I wasn't sure it was always for the better. I have to admit, though, having a child was the best decision I (we) ever made. I adore this kid. Being his mom excites me in a way that almost makes me a morning person. I'm fulfilled in a way I never knew possible, and I can't imagine a life without him. So, why then do I find myself crying alone in the shower?

Before I had my son, rarely if ever did I find myself crying in my shower. I was half socialite, half homebody, enjoying lunch with my girlfriends and my yoga classes, but cuddling up at night to watch TV with my husband. Since I had my son, I can count on one hand how many yoga classes I've been to in two years — or maybe just one one finger. I had no idea how all-consuming motherhood would be. It is constant. I mean, I reckoned I'd have breaks. Those breaks would help me feel like me again. My husband could step in here and there, and then we'd have a babysitter so that my husband and I could go on being my husband and I.

Yes, my husband takes care of him here and there, and we have a babysitter for our weekly date nights — which is amazeballs, but I didn't count on one thing: I can't relax. I'm always a mom. Even on our date nights, I always feel like a mom. My husband and I can go see a movie, and I'm still thinking about my little guy, wondering if he's eating crayons. Or when I get a rare afternoon out to shop with my sister, I spend most of my time panicked, hoping my husband remembered to feed him. Or while eating dinner with a girl friend I haven't seen in months, my phone is placed next to my water glass in case of an emergency text. I can never turn that "mom switch" off. I can't seem to find that pre-baby woman that could just go see a movie to go see a movie. And I miss her.

I cry more these days than I ever have before. I'm the happiest I've ever been, experiencing unconditional love like I've never known from my son. And then, on the flip side (in moments), I'm the saddest I've ever been because I feel lonely. My parents are two long plane rides away, and I miss the comfort and their support of being their child while I'm comforting and supporting mine. Without my family close by to ground me, I lose myself more easily. But, when I do get to be with them, my family (more than my friends) reminds me of the person I was before being a mom and helps me find a balance between me and motherhood — a balance that keeps me sane and makes me happier. I feel less lost and less lonely.

I thought hanging out with my other mom friends would fill the loneliness void, but it didn't. In fact, it might have made it a little worse. All my mom friends and I have different schedules, and when we go out, we are all so focused on our kids (as it should be) that we don't much talk to each other. So, these relationships didn't really help me feel any less lonely. If anything, I felt like I had lost friendships I had for years — and missed my family even more.

So, when I became a mom, not only did I have to learn that skinny jeans were no longer a wardrobe staple of mine, I'm just now figuring out that I have to take a little time to learn who this new mom-me is, and I need time here and there in order to do that. I feel like I need to grieve the person I was pre-baby, because realistically I will never be that person again. I'm a mom now — forever. And I can't think of a greater privilege.

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Tonilyn Hornung Tonilyn has always preferred writing in her room to playing kick-ball outside; her humorous self-help book How to Raise a Husband was published for happy wives, husbands, and coffee tables everywhere.

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