During my pregnancy — in those quiet appointment rooms, across all those months of visits — my nurse midwife said something to me that I have carried for almost thirty years.
She told me that my teenage pregnancy was a part of my story.
But not my whole story.
And then she told me she had been a 17-year-old mother herself.
I have thought about those words more times than I can count.
Because what she was really saying — what I didn't fully understand until years later — is that who you are is never just one chapter.
You are always more than the hardest thing that happened to you.
You are always more than the role you stepped into.
You are always more than the season you're in right now.
I want to share something that feels vulnerable to say — even now.
Before my daughter was born — before any of this — I held a quiet picture in my mind that I never really talked about.
A version of my life that looked a little different.
A version of Faith who moved through the world more freely. Who built something for herself before she built something for everyone else.
I never fully committed to that picture.
But it lived in me.
And I think — if I'm being honest — it still does a little.
Not as regret.
Just as a reminder that I was becoming someone before I became everything to everyone.
I wonder if you carry something like that too.
Most women do.
We just rarely say it.
Not because we regret the life we chose. But because it feels disloyal somehow. Like acknowledging the road not taken means you didn't fully love the road you walked.
It doesn't mean that.
It just means you're human.
And you are allowed to hold both things at once.
This episode isn't just about becoming a mother young.
It's about any woman who stepped into a role — mother, caregiver, partner, provider — before she had finished becoming herself.
Before she understood what she wanted.
Before she had fully heard her own voice.
I think a lot of us moved so quickly into our roles — so efficiently, so capably — that we never stopped to grieve the becoming that got interrupted.
The woman who was still forming.
The dreams that got folded away.
The questions about identity that got answered by circumstance before we had a chance to answer them ourselves.
Here is the thing about becoming a mother at 17 that nobody tells you.
You grow up alongside your child.
She was becoming herself. And I was still becoming myself.
We did it at the same time.
We were both unfinished.
We were both learning.
We were both becoming — together.
And here is what that taught me.
You don't have to be fully formed to be exactly what someone needs.
You don't have to have it all figured out to show up completely.
Some of the most profound growth of my life happened not in spite of becoming a mother young — but because of it.
When my daughter went to college — I was 35 years old.
I dropped her off before most of my friends had teenagers.
And I remember standing there, watching her walk away into her new life, and feeling two things at exactly the same time.
An enormous pride.
And a quiet question.
Who am I now that she doesn't need me the same way?
I want to ask you that too — not just about children, but about any role that has defined you.
What happens to your sense of self when the thing that anchored your identity starts to shift?
I didn't have a full answer standing in that parking lot.
But I was starting to ask the question.
And asking it — honestly, without rushing to answer it — is the beginning of everything.
All three of my children have taught me something different about myself.
About my marriage. About my capacity for love and patience and growth. About who I am and who I am still becoming.
And I think that's the thing about any deep relationship that nobody fully prepares you for.
It doesn't just shape them.
It shapes you.
You are always becoming alongside the people you love most.
Think about that for a moment.
Who have you been becoming alongside?
What have the people you love most taught you about yourself — things you couldn't have learned any other way?
I keep coming back to what my midwife said to me.
Your pregnancy is a part of your story. But not your whole story.
I have thought about those words in the context of so many seasons since then.
When I stepped into nursing leadership and wondered if I was qualified enough.
When I moved away from everything familiar and had to build from scratch.
When I dropped my daughter off at college at 35 and didn't know who I was without her needing me the same way.
Every time I have hit a moment of uncertainty — of not knowing who I am in this new chapter — I come back to that.
This is part of my story.
But not my whole story.
And I want to offer that to you.
Whatever season you are in right now — whatever role you are stepping out of or into or questioning — it is part of your story.
But it is not your whole story.
You are more than the hardest thing that happened to you.
You are more than the role you stepped into before you felt ready.
You are more than this chapter.
Your identity is not only your role.
You were someone before you took on the roles you carry.
And you are still that person — layered, expanded, sometimes buried — underneath everything you've built.
Part of what this season of life is asking us to do is to gently excavate her.
To ask: who was I before all of this?
What did she want?
What did she love?
What parts of her have I set aside — and which ones am I ready to reclaim?
You don't have to blow up your life to answer those questions.
You don't have to leave anything behind.
You just have to start asking.
And then — slowly, gently, without pressure — start listening for the answer.
A few questions to sit with:
- Is there a version of yourself — a life you quietly imagined — that you've never given yourself permission to acknowledge? What would it mean to honor that without guilt?
- Who have you been becoming alongside the people you love most — and what have they revealed about you that you couldn't have found any other way?
- What role has most defined your identity — and what happens to your sense of self when that role starts to shift or change?
- If you stripped away every title and every responsibility — who is left? And what does she need right now?
If this episode resonated with you, I'd love to hear from you at faith@stillbuildingpodcast.com — I read every message.
And if you know a woman who is somewhere in the middle of figuring out who she is underneath all the roles she carries — share this episode with her.
She deserves to feel seen.
You're not alone. You're not behind. You're not finished.
You're still building.
And so am I.
— Faith