Have you ever truly not recognized yourself?
I know we toss around phrases like “I’ve lost myself” or “I don’t know who I am anymore,” but what if you were so disconnected that you quite literally didn’t know it was you?
That actually happened to me.
About twenty-five years ago, I was married to Husband Number 3. (Yes, Number 3 — buckle up.) We’d been married about four years and had three kids together — add my oldest and that made four little humans under my roof. Things were… not good. They hadn’t been for a long time, even before our twins were born. But there we were — technically together, not really trying to make it work, just coexisting in counseling and chaos.
We’d met at one of the lowest points of my life: my second husband had left me for someone else, I was grieving a marriage I thought would last, and trying to wrap my head around sharing custody of my daughter. I was twice divorced at 31 and felt like a certified failure. The only upside? I was what some call “divorce skinny.” (If you know, you know.)
A mutual friend set us up on a blind date. He liked that I went to church. He’d even seen me sing at a Christmas service — bonus points! I’d never been one to take my time — patience was not my virtue. So, when I had to sell my house after divorce #2, my daughter and I moved in with him after about three months. Should I have waited? Probably. Should I have done a little healing? Definitely. But if it’s true that we pick our parents, then I believe my three kids with him were meant to be. No regrets there.
Back then, I was the queen of “my needs don’t matter.” Looking back, it probably started in childhood — the roles I learned to play, the things I was told I had to do and the things I was told I couldn’t do.
Remember the movie Runaway Bride? There’s that famous scene where Maggie (Julia Roberts) realizes she never knew how she liked her eggs — she just liked them however each fiancé did. Scrambled, fried, poached — she was an egg chameleon. When Richard Gere’s character calls her out, she has an egg-identity crisis and tastes them all to figure out her real favorite. (Eggs Benedict, FYI.)
I did that — but with music. Husband #1: hip-hop, 80s rap, club bangers. Husband #2: 80s dance, 90s country (I never thought I’d love Garth Brooks, but here we are). Husband #3: 80s rock and country — and scary movies, which I hated. He’d stay up late watching horror flicks. I worked at 6:30 AM — give me a good RomCom and an early bedtime, thanks.
When I got pregnant with my second daughter, I was deeply depressed — to the point it was hard to function. I’ll never forget him saying, “I’m sick and tired of you being sick and tired.” I remember thinking, Same, buddy. Same. After she was born, I got on antidepressants, which helped me cope but came with that lovely side effect: weight gain. Gradual at first, until I got pregnant with twins. Physically and emotionally, I was wrecked.
It became my standard joke when I’d tell people I’d been divorced three times: “I’m not that hard to live with!” But honestly? Was I? And the bigger question: Who was I and was that actually the problem??
So, back to not recognizing myself.
One of the last things we did before splitting up was go to his best friend’s wedding in Louisville, Kentucky. The Seelbach Hotel — historic, beautiful, fancy. I had to buy a formal gown and ended up in a size I never thought I’d wear. It was humiliating, but I sucked it up. I went to all the parties and spent half the time hiding in the hotel room with the stack of books I’d dragged along (pre-Kindle days, people).
At the reception, there were disposable cameras everywhere. I’ve never loved photos of myself — but the day after the wedding, I got a wake-up call I’ll never forget. Some gorgeous woman came up to me with a stack of photos. I flipped through them and found one with a cute flower girl posing with… some random lady. I thought, Well the little girl is adorable, but who is this woman? And then it hit me.
That woman was me.
I didn’t even recognize myself.
Life had worn me down so much that I was unrecognizable to the one person who should have known me best — me. That was my jolt.
When we got home, I made changes. I joined the gym — I’d always loved working out — and slowly started caring for myself again. That was the first step on a long road that’s lasted 25 years and counting. That marriage ended soon after — and it needed to.
Now? I feel like I’m finally starting to recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. Some days it’s still hard. Some days, she’s the friend I need.
And the music? I went years without it — silence felt safer. But just recently, I built my first playlist. Just for me. Turns out, music matters for my soul.
I’ll keep you posted.