Motherhood has been the greatest joy of my life.

And also the most humbling identity shift I have ever experienced.

Six months in, I’m realizing that becoming a mother doesn’t add something to your life.

It doesn’t simply expand your world.

It changes the entire structure.

Your nervous system.

Your capacity.

Your relationship to time.

Your relationship to your body.

Your relationship to who you thought you were.

I am deeply, wildly in love with my daughter, Bella.

She is my heart outside my body.

And motherhood dismantled versions of me I didn’t even realize I was still relying on.

It forced a level of slowness my old nervous system didn’t know how to tolerate.

It removed the illusion that I could muscle my way through exhaustion.

It exposed how much of my worth had been quietly tied to productivity, output, and how “together” I appeared.

There are days I don’t recognize myself.

And days I recognize myself more honestly than I ever have before.

What surprised me most wasn’t the exhaustion — I expected that.

It was the disappearance of support.

At first, people show up.

They check in.

They come by.

They ask how you’re doing — but only because you’re in the room.

What they really want is to see the baby.

Because she’s new.

And tiny.

And fascinating.

And then the novelty fades.

The visits stop.

The messages slow.

Life resumes — for everyone else.

But for you, nothing pauses.

You’re still waking up every two hours.

Still responsible for keeping another human alive.

Still navigating hormonal shifts, identity loss, sleep deprivation, and a nervous system that no longer recognizes rest.

Motherhood is the job with the least amount of societal support,

yet it is the one job that cannot be skipped, paused, or half-done.

There are no sick days.

No shortcuts.

No clocking out.

Our hair falls out.

The calcium literally leaches from our bones.

Our brains change.

Our sleep disappears.

And somehow — impossibly — we fall more in love every single day. We want a day off.

Just to breathe.

Just to go to the bathroom alone.

Just to shower without thinking we hear our baby crying in the other room.

Just to sleep for more than four uninterrupted hours.

And we can’t.

This is when something became painfully clear to me:

I didn’t understand how unsupported mothers are until I became one myself.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

What made this realization hit even harder is this:

My entire business was built because I needed support.

Years ago, I started creating retreats, trainings, and community spaces because I was unraveling.

I was rebuilding my life from the ground up.

I needed places where I didn’t have to pretend I was okay.

Where my nervous system could soften.

Where I could remember who I was beneath survival mode.

The Embodied Warrior was never born from a polished business plan.

It was born from necessity.

It was how I put myself back together.

And now, in the most full-circle way imaginable, motherhood has brought me back to that same truth.

I need these spaces more than ever.

Motherhood didn’t pull me away from my work.

It clarified it.

It showed me that healing doesn’t happen in isolation.

That regulation doesn’t happen alone.

That transformation doesn’t come from effort or optimization.

It happens in community.

In relationship.

In spaces where we are allowed to be human.

That’s why returning to Nicaragua has felt so significant.

This land held me while I rebuilt my life — when I was exhausted, grieving, lost, and starting over with very little but determination and hope.

And now, it’s holding me again.

This time as a mother.

Being here with Bella has felt like coming home to myself — but in a new body, a new identity, a new season of life.

Recently, we gathered for cacao, sound healing, and community.

No fixing.

No forcing.

No performing.

Just women breathing together.

Letting their nervous systems land.

Being honest about where they are.

And I was reminded of something simple and essential:

We are not meant to do this alone.

Motherhood didn’t end the work I’ve been doing.

It completed the circle.

This season isn’t asking me to become someone new.

It’s asking me to slow down.

To soften.

To listen more closely.

To build the kinds of spaces I wish existed when I needed them most.

And this — truly — is only the beginning.

*if you're craving this level of community support, warm sunshine, & ocean front luxury accommodations - join us this March 8-14, 2026 for the first ever TEW REUNION RETREAT in Nicaragua.

Limited space left, snag a shared or private room here: retreat info.