“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
It’s probably the most common question asked of children. Many dream big: an NBA star, a YouTube sensation, a pop artist, an NFL player.
My answers were always simple, consistent, and grounded. I wanted to be a teacher, a mom, and a wife. I never wavered from those three dreams. I even had my imaginary school set up in our family dining room, with my dolls and my younger brother as students. My ‘children’ were my dolls—I’d dress them, style their hair, and imagine our days together. I would watch families on TV and long for the day I could live out my own version of that life.
After college, with a degree in Elementary and Special Education in hand, I was dating the man who would become my husband. I had graduated without any job prospects, leaving me in a summer filled with anxiety. I constantly scrolled school district websites, waiting for an opening that never came—until about two weeks before orientation in Delaware schools, I was called in for an interview. Soon after, I was offered a position as a sixth-grade Special Education teacher. At first, I was overjoyed. This was the moment I had been dreaming of.
Then orientation began. I pulled up to a pale brick building and walked cold, cinder-block hallways in search of Room 717. With help from a veteran teacher, I found it. But the room, buried like a time capsule in the library, was isolated from the rest of the sixth-grade classrooms. Inside, it was nothing like the bright, cheery classroom I had imagined. The room had no windows, and boxes of discarded materials from the previous teacher were scattered everywhere. I broke down in tears.
I remember calling my boyfriend, now husband, that day. Through my tears, I cried, “I don’t want to do this!” He was shocked. “What? How can you already know that?” he asked.
But I knew. Eight years later, when I resigned to stay home with my children, I realized one of my childhood dreams—teaching—was no longer the same for me. Deep down, I was devastated.
In January 2017, we learned we were expecting our first child. In truth, we weren’t completely ready, but we had been trying in case it took time. Surprisingly, our first baby was conceived right away. Friends and family were thrilled, and we were overjoyed—except for me. I wanted to keep the pregnancy private, anxious about gossiping teachers and prying questions. The joy I felt was tinged with worry.
Then, in April 2017, after our 20-week ultrasound, joy gave way to fear. My midwife called early one morning. She told me our baby had a “significant limb discrepancy on his left shin and foot.” Shock and questions swirled: How? What did this mean? Even after a specialist appointment, uncertainty remained. A possible diagnosis of clubfoot loomed, and I withdrew, hiding the pregnancy and keeping the nursery door closed.
We finally secured an appointment with a world-renowned pediatric orthopedic specialist, Dr. Nichols, in July. My friend Shannon advised me to bring my mom as a third-party support. I’m grateful she did. Dr. Nichols’ fast-paced explanation of limb lengthening, braces, and corrective therapy left me overwhelmed. But she never said “clubfoot.” Our baby had fibular hemimelia, not clubfoot. Having my mom there ensured clarity. Dr. Nichols reassured us repeatedly, “It’ll be great! No problem. We will make it all perfect.” I left the office tearful but with a glimmer of peace.
Just two days later, on July 31, my water broke—at only 34 weeks. Our baby was breech, so I had a C-section. We met our son, Jacob Daniel, for the first time: 5 pounds, 5 ounces, hooked up to breathing tubes. I didn’t get to hold him for over six hours. This wasn’t the motherly moment I had imagined growing up.
For 15 days, I was a NICU mom. I pumped breast milk, asked permission to hold him, and felt detached and watched. Postpartum depression wrapped me in a fog of withdrawal and anxiety. One night, after returning from the NICU, I broke down, unable to form words. This motherhood journey was nothing like I had imagined.
August 15, 2017, Jacob came home. Monitors and cords were replaced by sleepless nights and a deepening depression. By my birthday, I confided in my mom about the detachment I felt from Jacob. I loved him—I just couldn’t express it yet. My PPD wasn’t filled with harmful thoughts, but it left me exhausted, trapped, and suffocated by sleep deprivation and my own mind.
Today, Jacob is 3.5 years old. He is thriving, unstoppable, wearing a brace and shoe lift to support his legs. You’d never guess he was a NICU preemie.
Me? I’m not in that dark space anymore, but I’m not back to my old self either. The woman I was is gone. I’m learning to accept my new self, embracing motherhood on my terms. I tell Jacob I love him every day, even when it’s hard.
I’m a mom, a wife, and a teacher—but my versions are different. They’re mine, and I’m still discovering who I am in this new life.
