Missing Myself: On Missing a Time, the Children Small, and Most of All Myself

I am always missing something. Someone. Some time.

It lives with me quietly, like a song playing in another room. Most days I can work over it, talk over it, smile over it. And then, in the middle of an ordinary afternoon, the music gets louder and I have to stop.

Sometimes it is the years when my children were small. Helpless, sweet, sticky little people who waited for me at the end of every day as if I were the main event. I would hear them before I saw them: feet on the floor, both voices at once, because a whole day had happened to them and I had to know all of it. Who said what. Who cried. Which drawing was the best. I was so tired then. I didn’t know that one day I would miss even that tiredness, the good kind, the kind that comes from being needed by someone small.

Sometimes it is my youth. Not the face in old photographs, but the fuel inside. The joy that didn’t need a reason. That easy, almost careless will to live one more day just because it might be fun. There were worries then too, I’m sure. But they were small enough to fit in a pocket, and I hardly remember them now.

But the deepest longing, the one that hurts most, is the longing for myself.

I miss myself so much that I can hardly remember what it feels like to be me. Not the role. Not the woman who keeps everything running. Me. I search for her the way you search for a word you knew a minute ago. It is right there, on the tip of my tongue, all the time. I know it. I would recognize it at once. And then it is gone again.

I remember that I used to fall asleep without listening for something. That I used to wake up without first checking how heavy the day would be. That tomorrow was not a question, only another page.

The woman who wasn’t afraid

When I think of the last time I truly felt like myself, it was not when life looked its best from the outside. It was earlier. But I felt safe then. Completely, unthinkingly safe. Whatever came, I was sure we could handle it, because we were together. Problems arrived and left again, like weather, and none of them ever felt bigger than us.

If I could sit across a table from her, that woman, I think I would just watch her for a while. The way she laughs without checking who is listening. The way she makes plans as if the future owes her nothing bad. And then I would ask her: how did you do it? How did you know it would be all right?

I think she would look at me, a little puzzled, and say: I didn’t know. I just wasn’t standing alone.

Standing on one foot

Now I am standing on one foot.

From the outside, nobody notices. I keep my balance beautifully, I think. I work, I smile, I carry everything I have to carry. I even help others stand. But inside I know how much effort it takes just to stay upright: every muscle tight, every thought spent on not falling. It is exhausting in a way that sleep does not fix.

And I don’t know how long I can hold it. Every small push, an unexpected message, a hard word, a bad night, feels like it could be the one that finally tips me over.

Maybe this is what I really miss. Not a time, not an age, not the children’s small hands, though I miss those too. I miss solid ground under both feet. The simple, unspoken certainty that tomorrow will hold.

Somewhere to put my other foot down

I don’t know yet how to find my way back to her. Maybe there is no way back, only forward, toward a version of her I haven’t met yet. Older. More careful. Maybe even stronger, in a quieter way.

But I know she existed. I remember the taste of that calm, even if I can’t describe it. And if I remember it, maybe it hasn’t left me completely. Maybe it is only waiting, patiently, the way a good friend waits, until I find somewhere to put my other foot down.

And when I do, I hope I’ll recognize her at once. The way you recognize your own handwriting on an old letter. Oh. There you are.

Is there a version of yourself you miss? You don’t have to tell me who she was. Only that you miss her.

Would you like to share your answer?

I read every answer myself. It stays private unless you say otherwise.

If you are in crisis or thinking about harming yourself, please reach out to local emergency services or a crisis line in your country right now. You deserve immediate support.

Listen: For When You Miss Who You Used to Be

For the one who keeps everything running and can hardly remember what it felt like to be herself. She didn’t disappear. She only went quiet while you were busy carrying.

With love, from HerWay

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