Mommabear

@mommabearwitch.bsky.social

580 Followers 925 Following

NO PRIVATE MESSAGES! VERY LIBERAL! Woke, mom to trans kids, anti-fasist, mental health social worker, widow, resist! Mommabearwitch@bsky.social Mommabearwitch Threads Mommabearwitch Instagram Tiktok.com/@amommabearwitch

I spent years looking for magic in other people like it was hidden loot in a side quest. Turns out the magic was me the whole time. Slightly caffeinated, emotionally overcooked, carrying trauma like a clearance rack purse, but still... magic. Not the sparkly movie kind either. More like: “somehow survived everything that should’ve turned me into a swamp villain” magic. I am my own protection spell. My own plot twist. My own warning label. And honestly? Nobody talks enough about how exhausting it is being your own healer, motivator, therapist, cheerleader, and crisis management team while also trying to remember why you walked into the kitchen. Some people were born with generational wealth. I was born with generational anxiety and a personality that says, “I’ll handle it,” while internally loading seventeen tabs of panic. But here’s the thing: I kept going anyway. That’s the real magic. Not perfection. Not aesthetic moon water. Not pretending to be unbothered. The real magic is rebuilding yourself so many times you become the damn resurrection ritual.
Somewhere along the way, my name got buried under titles. Mom. Wife. Sister. Daughter. Caretaker. The one who holds it all together. And I love those roles. I really do. They’re stitched into my life with meaning and responsibility and fierce devotion. But they are not the whole of me. I am not just who I am to other people. I am thoughts that don’t always get spoken. Dreams that didn’t disappear just because life got busy. A voice that exists outside of what I give, fix, carry, or manage. I am a person with edges and depth and contradictions that don’t fit neatly into a label. There is a version of me that existed before anyone called me “mom,” before I answered to “wife,” before I became someone’s support system. She’s still here. Quieter, maybe. A little worn in places. But still very real. And I want space for her too. Not instead of the roles I hold, but alongside them. I want to be known not just for who I am to others, but for who I am when I’m standing alone, unintroduced, unnamed by expectation. Just me. No title required.