Danielle apologized to me all week.
She apologized when her youngest needed her attention. She apologized when I grabbed a stroller or carried a bag. She thanked me for being patient with her kids, for helping without being asked, for making the trip easier. By the third day, I found myself saying the same thing over and over.
“You don’t have to apologize.”
At first, I thought she was just being polite. But somewhere between Boston and Salem, I realized she wasn’t apologizing because of me.
She was apologizing because she was tired.
Not just physically tired, although any parent knows that kind of exhaustion. It was something deeper. It was the kind of tired that comes from carrying so much for so long that accepting help starts to feel uncomfortable. Almost like you’ve done something wrong.
The thing that caught me off guard wasn’t recognizing her exhaustion.
It was recognizing myself.
I know that version of me. The one who says, “I’ve got it,” even when I don’t. The one who thanks people too much when they help because somewhere along the way I’ve convinced myself that needing support is asking too much.
I’ve been thinking about that ever since we got home.
Everyone says it takes a village to raise children, and I believe that’s true. But I wonder if we’ve misunderstood what a village really is. Maybe it isn’t about having dozens of people around you all the time. Maybe it’s simply knowing there are people who are willing to step in when your arms get tired.
The funny thing is, I don’t know that I’ve ever felt like I had a village.
But I realized on this trip that I do have support.
Somehow those two things have always felt different to me, and I haven’t quite figured out why yet. Maybe a village is something we imagine having all the time, while support is something we recognize only when we finally allow ourselves to receive it. That thought stayed with me as we walked through Salem. Like most people, I went there thinking about history. I left thinking about fear.
Fear has always fascinated me. We talk about it like it’s something to conquer, but fear isn’t always the enemy. Fear keeps us safe. It tells us not to touch the hot stove or walk into danger. We need fear.
But I wonder if fear also quietly keeps us disconnected.
Fear tells us not to ask for help because we don’t want to be a burden. Fear tells us not to start the business. Not to apply for the job. Not to write the blog. Not to say what we really think.
Not because we’re incapable, but because we’re afraid of being seen.
A few days after we got home, I hopped on ChatGPT for some guidance on finding a remote job as a SAHM. What I saw was Nick had uploaded one of my essays and asked it to summarize me so that he could better understand how to support me. I expected it to talk about my writing. Instead, it described someone who was compassionate, dependable, creative and insightful. It described someone who had spent years pouring herself into other people and hadn’t quite realized the value she already carried.
I remember staring at the screen thinking, “Who is she talking about?”
It wasn’t because ChatGPT knew me. It was because I didn’t. Or maybe I only knew myself through the roles I play for everyone else.
I’ve been wondering ever since how often that happens to women. We are so good at recognizing strength in each other while completely overlooking it in ourselves. We can point to another woman and tell her exactly why she’s capable, exactly why she’s enough, exactly why she should believe in herself.
Then we go home and question every one of those same things about ourselves.
Maybe that’s why connection matters so much.
Not because we’re looking for someone to fix us.
Because sometimes another woman can see us before we’re able to see ourselves.
I keep coming back to the image of a plant. If the sunlight stays in one place, its roots know where to grow. But if the light keeps moving, the plant spends all its energy reaching for it. It bends one direction and then another, always searching, never really settling.
I wonder if we do that too. I feel like it’s what I’ve been doing. I have these ideas. I lean into them and when I don’t feel the growth, I feel weaker for it.
We spend years reaching toward our children, our marriages, our work, our responsibilities, always pouring pieces of ourselves into the people we love. For a long time I thought we simply lost ourselves somewhere along the way.
I don’t think that’s true anymore. I think we slowly hand ourselves away. Not because anyone asks us to. Because giving is part of loving. But giving without ever returning to ourselves eventually leaves us wondering why we don’t feel grounded anymore.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to write about all along.
Not motherhood.
Not fear.
Not midlife.
Not even finding yourself.
Maybe this space is simply about remembering.
Remembering that underneath all the roles we’ve carried and all the pieces we’ve handed away, there is still a woman who deserves the same kindness, encouragement and belief that she so freely gives everyone else.
I don’t want to be the sun for anyone.
I don’t have life figured out, and I don’t think that’s what women are looking for anyway.
But maybe I can be a little light along the path.
Just enough for another woman to stop for a moment, catch her breath, and remember…
She’s still in there.
Continue the conversation
If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman.
It’s not a roadmap. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and finding your footing again when life feels unfamiliar.
Download The Unguided Woman here.
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