Ever fake-smile through a conversation while mentally managing 53 imaginary emergencies in the background?
Yeah… same.
I’ve been writing about the tapestry of my life, and this week I’ve been thinking about the missing pieces.
Picture this: everyone at the braai is cracking up at a joke and I’m grinning along like I totally heard the punchline. Meanwhile, my brain is doing risk assessments like I’m working undercover for the Secret Service.
That slide looks unstable — head injuries pending.
Did anyone set a timer for the garlic bread?
The coals — what’s their status?
Where did the kids go?
Oh great, someone’s toddler is attempting a backflip off the patio furniture. Perfect.
And don’t forget the salad in the fridge — it’s definitely wilting by now.
My body is physically there, holding a glass of wine and looking like I’m having a lovely time — but my brain is juggling flaming knives, and my heart? She’s out back taking deep breaths and Googling symptoms.
And then — as if the mental circus isn’t enough — I wake up one morning, look in the mirror, and suddenly I’m four years into menopause, wondering:
Who is this woman?
Where’s the spark?
Why does my reflection look like the responsible auntie who brings Tupperware to a party?
Here’s the thing: I didn’t lose myself in one dramatic moment. There was no explosion… no obvious breaking point… no single day I woke up a stranger to myself.
It happened slowly.
Quietly.
Piece by piece.
I gave away my joy to keep the peace.
I silenced my voice to be liked.
I traded rest for approval.
I hid my softness so no one could call me weak again.
And the worst part?
I didn’t even notice I was disappearing.
I thought I was growing up — when really, I was shrinking.
I thought I was being strong — when really, I was numbing.
I thought I was doing what I had to — when really,
I was surrendering parts of me God never asked me to give away.
Some pieces were taken.
Some I sacrificed.
Some just faded in the busyness of trying to be everything for everyone.
But not everything that’s lost is gone.
God never misplaced the parts of me I abandoned while holding everyone else up.
He kept them safe — waiting until I had the courage to come home to myself again.
Back to wonder.
Back to softness.
Back to joy.
Back to me.
And piece by piece, I can feel Him handing them back.
A real laugh that isn’t guarded.
A moment of joy I actually let myself feel.
A second where someone else watches the kids and I let myself unclench.
Little things.
Ordinary things.
Holy things.
I’m not trying to become who I used to be — she’s long gone, and she deserved better anyway.
I’m becoming someone who chooses joy on purpose.
Who believes rest isn’t earned — it’s needed.
Who doesn’t disappear inside the responsibilities of being everything to everyone.
These are the missing pieces.
And they are coming home.
I am returning to myself.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
Bravely.
One grace-filled, permission-granted, slightly-sweaty menopausal moment at a time.
“God is restoring the pieces I never thought I’d see again.” — Luke 15
✨ If you’re in your “who even am I now?” era — comment RETURNING so I can cheer you on.
