It has been almost six months since I gave birth to my son. I would never have imagined that my life could be so profoundly changed. Postpartum feels like entering a parallel world, tender, transformative and profoundly isolating. My life shifted overnight, and the new responsibility of caring for my baby pulled every part of me into uncharted, stormy waters.

The world outside seemed to move on effortlessly, while I hovered between two versions of myself. The woman I once was, rootless, always in motion, having lived in Berlin, Paris, New York, DC and London, built a career, traveled and never settled, as the world swept her along. Now, anchored in Vienna –– a city I find challenging but many dream of –– my days are consumed by a tiny human whose needs never end, by sleepless nights, with a responsibility that leaves me feeling both empty and full. I cling to work as a lifeline connecting me to the person I used to be, but even then, the hours slip away, and I am left feeling as if I’ve done nothing at all.

This phase is a time of love and vulnerability, of overwhelming devotion, but also of a quiet grief for the loss of a former self that drifts further and further away, a self I fear might disappear from view altogether.

In late October, almost five months after giving birth, I was alone for the first time. The freedom was both thrilling and terrifying. I meticulously planned every moment of the five days I had without my baby: rest, sleep, work, writing, shopping and exercise. I felt overwhelmed because it was the first time I had the opportunity to reclaim my time. It was a chance to step into a controlled, isolated space –– a space where I could begin searching for my old self, the one I had been dreaming of since giving birth. So, to celebrate my freedom and to reclaim the old me, one autumn afternoon in Vienna, I took my bike and rode along the Danube. The weather was perfect: calm, crisp and golden. I hadn’t planned the route. I just rode! Three hours and seventy kilometres later, I found myself in Bratislava, a city I had no plan to reach. Barely prepared, I crossed the Iron Curtain, now a completely invisible border between two countries, as I challenged my mental boundaries. 

Crossing a border in my mind

As I pedaled through the empty flatlands, at times laughing at my newfound freedom and at others crying, my thoughts turned inward, caught on an emotional rollercoaster. How would I bounce back, pick up where I had left off, and continue the parts of my old life – now with my baby alongside me? Oh, how naïve I had been!

Motherhood rearranged everything: priorities, friendships, love, even me. It added layers of care and understanding I never imagined, not only with my child but also with my husband. It softened but strengthened me. I was expanded in ways I hadn’t anticipated, but alongside this growth came a quiet, persistent pain. I desperately wanted my old self back, yet feared that doing so might somehow jeopardize the mother I was becoming. I dreamed of the person I used to be, but those dreams were tangled with immense guilt and a sense of ungratefulness, as if longing for myself meant failing to appreciate the blessings I now had. I also thought of my mother. I wondered if she had the same feelings and dreamt of taking a bike and riding somewhere far away to process her life. I am sure she did. Now, from a mother’s perspective, I found myself thinking a lot about her strength, with a deeper awareness of her pain and sensitivity.

I only fully understood her story after becoming a mother myself. She gave birth to me during the Serbian occupation of Kosovo and was left unattended in the hospital to deliver me alone. I imagined her fear, her solitude, the weight of bringing a child into a world on the brink of war. As I thought of her experience, I realised that motherhood is never only our own struggle; it is inherited, layered with the sacrifices and resilience of the women who came before us. Again, I tried returning to myself. But to which version of me? A version pieced together from who I once was, with new layers of motherhood added, a version still discovering how to be whole. During that bike ride, I realised one thing: I cannot return to my old self. Without my child in mind, freedom cannot satisfy me and nor can motherhood without it being part of the outside world. 

Pedaling across borders alone, I reflected on everything I had survived, everything I had yet to experience, and the ways that motherhood had shaped me. I realised that I am stronger, more sensitive, and more capable than I had ever imagined. 

Motherhood had not erased me; it expanded me, made my life richer, more complex and more connected.

By the time I arrived in Bratislava, I realised freedom is not just about the absence of responsibility. It is about choosing where to anchor yourself, where to commit your love and attention. My “settling” is no longer a geographical place but a space I share with my baby and my husband.

Being needed, caring deeply, and creating this small, intimate world is empowering in ways I could not have anticipated.

On the train ride home with my bike in hand, I felt exhausted but alive. While I may miss the woman who could bike anywhere without a care, I wouldn’t trade this new version of myself for anything. I am a mother, an adventurous woman and a professional. I am whole, transformed and unexpectedly free.

Sometimes, clarity and self-discovery do not arrive in grand gestures. Sometimes they come about in the form of crazy adventures and unexpected cities, on bike rides that carry you farther than you planned. Bratislava was the place I least imagined I would find myself, yet there I was, crossing borders both in mind and body.

And just like that, in that temporarily allotted freedom, I realised that the woman I had been before having a child might never return. Perhaps it was time to start mourning her in order to open up to new versions of myself.

Author’s note:

I first wrote this story for my son, in the journal I began the very day I found out I was pregnant. I am sharing it now because these thoughts, the tension between my old self and the woman I am becoming, have stayed with me. My husband encouraged me to share it, nudging me out of my usual professional writing, reminding me that this story could inspire other women and help them feel seen. I hope readers recognize themselves here and feel reassured that both aspects of themselves can coexist.

Now, as I move through workshops, conferences, and meetings with my baby at my side, I am proudly taking my place in the world. Women should not have to choose; they can be both, if they want to be.

Illustration: Dina Hajrullahu / K2.0

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