When my family returned from a six-week trip to Europe last summer, I told everyone: We won’t be doing this again next year.
Most people brushed it off—“You said that last year too,” they reminded me.
But I knew. Deep in my gut, I knew this year would be different.
As a mom of two young boys, I was starting to feel the slow transition out of a very particular season of parenting—the one where you are their whole world. Where every need is immediate. Where you’re not just Mom—you’re their playmate, chef, emotional regulator, life guide, and anchor. And while I don’t always like the sacrifices that come with that role, I’ve been willing to make them. Gladly, in fact. Because I knew I didn’t want to disappear for long stretches while they were still so little.
The last decade of my life has been full of change: I moved countries, got married, had two children, started my own business, and became a citizen of the U.S. And while my formal education happened long before those years, I’ve never stopped learning. Still, it often felt like whatever I was doing wasn’t enough.
Like most new moms—or moms of small kids—I would sneak peeks at the outside world through the window of my phone. Social media became a strange kind of lifeline. A place to connect. Ask questions. Commiserate. It was oddly comforting to type into a Facebook group at 2 a.m. about my baby’s sleep pattern or how to get him to nurse from both breasts. Gross to most people. But to us mamas? Totally normal.
On the other hand, Instagram was something else entirely.
Perfectly filtered lives, highlight reels of other people’s beauty, success, and curated peace… It made me feel self-conscious. Inadequate. And honestly, old. I’d find myself spiraling—Why do hundreds of thousands of people follow someone who’s just posting skincare selfies or eating salad on a beach? It seemed ridiculous. But still, I clicked.
And it got to me.
Where fashion magazines once photoshopped women into unattainable ideals, influencers now used filters, lighting, makeup, and algorithms to do the same. Many followed them out of curiosity—but others connected with what they were projecting. I judged it. Then I judged myself for judging it.
So I turned inward.
And I asked harder questions: What world do I actually want to live in? What values do I want to stand for—even if no one sees them?
With the help of a few gifted mentors, I found my way back to myself. To my voice. To my purpose. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t easy. And it certainly wasn’t cheap. But I rolled up my sleeves and did the work.
And what I discovered was this: I had bought into an illusion. I measured myself against it and found myself lacking. Not because I was—but because I believed I had to play their game to be seen. And when it didn’t work, I felt invisible, resentful, and stuck.
The truth is, nothing “out there” was the real source of my pain. My insecurities were old wounds—unattended, unnamed. And when I went back to those moments with compassion, the pain began to shift. I could let it go.
I realized: the world as it is doesn’t reflect my values. And even if I remained unrecognized forever, my purpose was enough. It had always been.
That clarity changed everything.
I cut down on social media. I stopped measuring myself by other people’s metrics. I rediscovered the blessings already around me—my partnership, my children, my creative work, my piano, my art, my voice.
And something subtle but profound began to take root.
The more I lived in alignment with my own rhythm, the more grounded I felt. I started sharing more honestly. I had deeper conversations with clients and friends about real values—time, presence, connection, reverence for nature, collaboration over competition. And before long, this global pandemic arrived and, in its own heartbreaking way, the world paused.
It was as if life gave us all a collective chance to reset.
Suddenly:
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We valued teachers again—because three days of homeschooling had us bowing down to their magic.
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We appreciated farmers and fresh food—because it was no longer just a click away.
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We understood the true worth of medical staff—those we depend on for survival, now needing our support too.
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We realized how much could be done without constant travel, overproduction, or in-person meetings.
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We noticed the absurdity of constant political bickering, endless consumption, and the unsustainable systems we had quietly accepted.
In the midst of so much uncertainty and fear, something else showed up too: solidarity.
People helped each other. Shared resources. Offered hope. Technology became a bridge, not a barrier. And many of us reconnected—with ourselves, our families, and what actually matters.
But the truth is, we’ve been here before. We promise not to forget. And then… we forget.
This time, we don’t have to.
We don’t have to go back to sleep.
We can stay awake. We can build something better—not just for the likes or the image, but for the legacy. A world where values aren’t performative—they’re lived. A world where we define success by how much love, integrity, and truth we bring to it. A world we’d be proud to hand to our children.
That’s the one I’m choosing. That’s the one I want to help others create too.
