Did I Loose My Spark?

I’m home every Saturday.

In the past, I would’ve been in church, and at Karen Sports Club thereafter. Or swimming in a family friend’s backyard and maybe cocktails with the girls after. Instead, I’m bookkeeping with my left arm and holding my breastfeeding daughter with my right. I have my favorite heels on, just to remind myself of the bad bitch I have always been and I haven't had a drink in years.

For further context, this is me.

For me, adulting has been a lot of things.

Adulting is knowing exactly who loves you, who hates you, who’s tolerating you, who wants your life, who would sabotage you if they had the chance, and still having a great time at a function with all five.

Adulting is breastfeeding in someone’s office because you need more copies of your new book and your daughter has to eat. It’s admitting that you no longer fit into your old jeans, your college friend group, or even the family you were born into.

It’s ditching your Friday night bathtub routine for a 90-second shower, because that’s all the time you have before your Velcro daughter starts screaming in a way that might make the neighbors consider calling child protection services.

Instead of binge watching Korean dramas as I usually do, adulting has me refereeing a fight between your seven-month-old daughter and her blanket at 2 a.m. The poor blanket, soaked in saliva, has had enough, but she’s determined to win.

It’s having a plumber, an electrician, and a security guard on speed dial because apparently that’s what homeowners do now.

It’s having your mother-in-law in your closest circle because she holds your baby so you can get some rest, makes you midnight snacks when you sleep over, restocks your pantry every two weeks and her friends have become your friends.

It’s living in pajamas, skipping makeup and nails because you’re too exhausted to care, and yet still feeling beautiful in the quiet way that comes from peace, not perfection.

It’s enjoying hosting family and friends because you finally have your own plates and dining setup to show off.

There’s a version of me that still lives in the past, the girl who had endless energy, who journaled for hours, who planned her weeks like they were small revolutions. She still lives somewhere inside me, rolling her eyes at my unkempt hair. But she would also be proud because even though I no longer spend my weekends hopping between gatherings or diving into deep conversations over brunch, I’m living the life she dreamed about.

This isn’t burnout. It’s transformation.

Motherhood has taught me the beauty of surrender the kind that doesn’t feel like giving up, but like growing up. I’ve learned that joy can be quiet, that purpose can be soft, that love can look like folding tiny clothes at midnight or choosing rest over recognition.

Entrepreneurship has stripped away the performance. There’s no one to impress when you’re nursing a baby with one hand and sending invoices with the other. It’s just me and my laptop, trying to make sense of a vision that still matters, even if I move slower now.

Adulting, real adulting, is realizing that the spark you thought you lost isn’t gone. It’s just not as loud anymore. It doesn’t need to announce itself with noise, makeup, or curated plans. It hums beneath your skin, steady and mature. It’s what keeps you grounded when everything else feels uncertain.

If I remained the baddie that spent two hours doing hair, nails, and makeup every time I left the house, parts of my daughter’s life would suffer. If I spent my money on my wardrobe the way I used to, my business would suffer. If I went out as much as I did before, my marriage would suffer. So I’m adopting and evolving as my life does. It’s necessary for my growth and happiness. It’s also what feels right for this season of my life.

I used to equate “spark” with excitement, with the version of myself who was always on the move, always doing, always glowing. But now I see that the real spark isn’t about energy; it’s about endurance.

It’s the light that stays on even when the room gets dark.

The one that holds steady through exhaustion, routine, and repetition.

It’s the spark that whispers, “You’re still her, just different.”

So no, I haven’t lost my spark. It’s just not loud anymore. It’s gentle, mature, grounded, the kind that doesn’t need an audience. These days, it burns in the way I choose peace over perfection. In how I love my daughter with a kind of patience I didn’t know I had. In the quiet confidence that comes from surviving, adapting, and evolving, again and again.

Motherhood, entrepreneurship, adulting, they didn’t steal my light. They refined it.

I’m not dimmer.

I’m just in a different season, and I still shine here, too.

I have no prime. There isn’t one version of me the world will point to and say, that was her best. Every season, every failure, every rebirth will have its own kind of brilliance. I will not spend my life trying to return to who I was, she served her purpose. I will keep evolving, stretching, unlearning, and unfolding until I die. Because I am not meant to peak; I am meant to transform.

The only prayer I have is that those I love will evolve with me, that they’ll love this version of me just as they did the others, and the ones yet to come. Because this version? She’s softer. She’s slower. She’s learning to protect her peace instead of her image. And she deserves to be loved in this season too, not for what she gives, not for how much she does, but simply for being.

Because growth changes us, but it doesn’t make us unworthy.

It just asks the people who love us to grow, too.

Author’s Note

Through Hai, I share stories like this one, reminders that healing isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it’s simply learning to meet yourself in every season and still call her worthy.

If you’re navigating your own season of growth and longing for guidance that feels gentle but real, I invite you to work with me through my one-on-one coaching program, a space to slow down, reflect, and return to yourself.

You can also explore my wellness journals, each one crafted to help you think deeper, feel clearer, and heal intentionally.

And if you’re a firstborn daughter learning to release the weight of responsibility and reclaim your peace, my self-help book Healing Firstborn Daughter will walk beside you as you do that sacred work.

Visit the shop on this website for more information.