I used to think “sleep deprivation” was just a hangover with better branding – something achieved only at festivals, regrettable nights out, or when binge-watching TV shows with subtitles (because I’m cultured). Then, at the luxurious and spiritually humbling age of thirty, I became a mother.
Motherhood is a bit like joining a cult you don’t remember signing up for, but instead of chanting or wearing robes, you’re wiping oatmeal off your ceiling while trying to remember the last time you peed in peace. My body, once a vessel for late-night kebab and alcohol, now responds to cries, coos, and inexplicably sticky hands with the alertness of a Navy SEAL. I was reborn – not in the spiritual sense, but in the I’ve started carrying wet wipes in my clutch sense.
But somewhere between trying to decode baby poop colours and forgetting what silence sounds like, something happened. I lost 20 kilograms. Not metaphorically. I mean literally – I lost a small child’s worth of weight. My collarbones came out of hibernation. Even my cheekbones RSVP’d to the party.
How did I do it? No, I didn’t join a cult. Or maybe I did. It’s called Exercise, and it’s wildly addictive once you stop treating it like a punishment and start using it as an excuse to be alone for 45 minutes with your book and your own wheezing breath. I didn’t find Jesus – I found kettlebells. And like most converts, I became insufferable.
It started innocently. I started on my elliptical machine for 15 minutes per day. Then I fell in love. Not with another human (my hands are already full with the tiny dictator I birthed and the best husband in the world), but with… fitness. With movement. With lifting heavy things that don’t scream “Mum!” every five minutes.
And here’s the kicker: I stopped drinking. Entirely. I ghosted alcohol. We were in a toxic relationship. Wine would whisper sweet nothings like, “You deserve this,” or “You’re funnier after two glasses.” But I needed clarity. I needed mornings that didn’t feel like I was hit by a nostalgia bus driven by regret. So I quit.
At first, it felt like social suicide. Who even am I at lunch without a glass of wine? What do I do with my hands at parties if not cradle a glass like a sophisticated raccoon? But then something weird happened. I started remembering things. Like conversations. And where I put my keys. And how it feels to wake up not wishing you were dead.
Sobriety gave me mornings. Early, glorious mornings. The kind where your child yells “MUMMMMMMMYYYYY” at 5:47am and you don’t instantly wish for death. Now I wake up with the same terrifying energy as people who drink celery juice and talk about “manifesting.” Except instead of manifesting, I do squats. And instead of celery, I drink black coffee and mumble “this is fine” through clenched teeth.
Look, I’m not saying I’m better than everyone now. (But also, I am.) I’ve just evolved into a version of myself that feels like she knows where the charging cords are, most of the time. I’m the woman who power walks, tracks her proteins, and looks smug at barbecues with her sparkling water and moral superiority. I’m the woman I used to mock. And reader… I love her.
Motherhood didn’t ruin me. It unraveled me, sure. It tossed me into a psychological spin cycle and left me to dry on the line of “Who the hell am I now?” But then it pieced me back together – softer in some ways, stronger in others, and always mildly covered in some kind of goo. I’ve never been sweatier, more exhausted, or more hilariously alive.
These days, I cry during my PMS and when I can’t do my workout. I think about how far I’ve come when I see my old wine glasses and laugh softly, like a woman remembering a summer fling. I still wear yoga pants daily, but now ironically, I actually do something in them. I’ve become the punchline and the glow-up.
So, here’s to all the thirty-something mothers with squishy bodies, fading stretch marks, and gym equipment that cost as much as their monthly salary. We are thriving. We are lifting. We are no longer drinking our dinner. And best of all, we are awake for it all – which, frankly, is both a blessing and a curse.
Motherhood may have changed my life, but sobriety and deadlifts gave it a plot twist. If you’re a tired mom wondering if change is possible – it is. Start small. Ditch the wine. Lift the thing. You’ve got this.
Erika Matic is a reluctant optimist, a full-time mess, and part-time philosopher who believes in magic and sarcasm. She writes so she doesn’t scream (as much). Her hobbies include overthinking, outrunning her anxiety (literally), and pretending her life is a European indie film where nothing bad ever happens — just some EDM and inner monologues.
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