Not Tiny, But Not Ours

Dear Mama Origins + My Journey into Single Motherhood

We moved into our dream house when my daughter was just weeks old. I packed up my apartment with her strapped to me, swaying as I taped boxes, breathing in that sweet newborn scent while I tried to imagine the life we were about to grow into.

It was a home I had built for a family of four. The yard had a trampoline and space for the kids to run. Our bedroom had stained glass windows that caught the morning light just right, and my baby would coo and stare at the shifting colors for what felt like hours. The sunset from the kitchen window spilled gold across the counters while I made dinner.

Artwork we collected over time filled the walls — it took us five months to hang it all. The garage never quite got organized, but even the mess felt like ours.And then, in what felt like an instant, that home shattered. And I did with it.

When my daughter was six months old, my life changed in a way I never imagined. It went from we — me and him — to we — just her and I. From building a shared life to figuring out how to carry both of us forward alone.

My family made space for us, and I was deeply grateful — but I had lost my own space. Our things were locked away in storage. My daughter and I shared a bedroom — not tiny, but not ours. I needed to hibernate and mend: to close a door and simply be — but instead, I learned to find that safety inside myself.

That shared guest room became the best thing I never wanted. Without my own four walls, I began to build something sturdier inside. The rebirth out of postpartum wasn’t just about feeling more like myself again — it was about meeting the version of me I’d never known. The mother who could carry the weight of endings and beginnings at the same time. The woman who could hold her baby close and still make space for her own healing.

Losing that home — the one with the stained glass mornings, golden sunsets, and art-covered walls — was a loss I thought would break me. Instead, it became the lesson and the revelation: that home is something I can rebuild anywhere, because it’s something I carry within.

Dear Mama was born from that truth — a love letter to every mother finding her footing after the ground gives way, learning that she is, and always has been, enough.

If you’re in a season of grief, rebirth, loss or postpartum woes, I hope you’ll find a piece of your own story here. Take what you need, and when you’re ready, join me inside the Dear Mama journal — a space to pause, reflect, and rebuild your own sense of home.