Motherhood changes you in ways you can never fully prepare for.

When I made the decision to adopt as a solo parent, I knew my life would change. What I didn't realize was how much it would change me. Parenting transforms you, inside and out. You love more deeply. You grow more resilient. You sacrifice in ways you didn't know you were capable of.

And somewhere in the middle of all that transformation, I lost track of myself.

The Slow Disappearance

It doesn't happen all at once. There is no single moment when you look in the mirror and don't recognize yourself. It happens gradually — one skipped workout, one meal eaten standing over the sink, one night of sleep sacrificed, one need of your own set aside because someone else's need was more urgent.

Solo parenting amplifies this. There is no one to hand off to. There is no backup. The weight of care falls entirely on you, and the easiest thing to deprioritize is always yourself.

What I Noticed

I noticed it in my body first. The fatigue that didn't lift after a good night's sleep. The way I moved through my days on autopilot, efficient but not present. The absence of joy in things that used to bring me joy.

Then I noticed it in my spirit. The prayers that felt more like reports than conversations. The sense that I was doing all the right things but from a place of depletion rather than abundance.

The Permission to Come Back

The hardest part was giving myself permission to come back.

There is a particular guilt that solo parents carry — the sense that any time or energy spent on yourself is time and energy stolen from your child. That self-care is selfishness dressed up in wellness language.

I had to dismantle that belief. Not because it was comfortable to dismantle, but because I could see clearly what I was modeling for my son: a mother who ran on empty, who treated her own needs as an afterthought, who equated love with self-erasure.

That is not the model I want to leave him.

What Coming Back Looks Like

Coming back to yourself after a season of depletion is not dramatic. It is not a spa weekend or a grand gesture. It is small, consistent choices made in the direction of your own flourishing.

For me, it was sleep. It was movement — not punishing exercise, but the kind that reminds your body it is alive. It was food that nourished rather than just fueled. It was prayer that was honest rather than performative.

It was, slowly, remembering that I am a person — not just a function.

For the Solo Parents Reading This

If you are a solo parent reading this, I want you to hear something clearly: your needs matter. Your health matters. Your joy matters. Not because you deserve a break (though you do), but because the version of you that is depleted cannot give your child what the version of you that is whole can give.

You cannot pour from an empty vessel. And you cannot model flourishing while you are quietly disappearing.

Come back to yourself. It is not selfish. It is necessary.

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Dr. Rebekah C. Lloyd is a solo adoptive mother, U.S. Army combat veteran, and author who writes about resilience, faith, and the intersection of personal and professional growth.