When You Become 1% of Your Own Life

Lately, I’ve been struggling. Deeply. Quietly. And honestly, I’m tired of pretending I’m not.

I’m on my second child now, and somewhere in the chaos of diapers, naps, snacks, meltdowns, and all the invisible labor that no one sees—but that keeps the entire world running—I’ve almost completely disappeared from my own life.

I feel like a 1% slice of the pie.

Everyone else gets the full meal: their passions, their space, their quiet, their uninterrupted thoughts. Me? I get fragments. Moments squeezed into the cracks of the day. I’m interrupted every minute. I’m ignored unless something is needed. I’m overwhelmed, under-recognized, and barely staying afloat.

Some days, I get an hour—maybe two on a miracle day—to surf or breathe or just do something that reminds me I’m more than a caretaker. But even then my mind is spinning, worrying, rushing back, making sure I’m available so everyone else can go chase their dreams.

Meanwhile, my partner’s life continues like normal.He can take the whole day to pursue what lights him up.I can’t even take a breath.

My dreams, the ones God put in me, the ones I started even when no one—not one person, not even the person I thought would believe in me—did, have slowed to a crawl. Sometimes it feels like they’ve stopped altogether.

I don’t paint anymore.I barely run.I surf just enough to remember what it feels like to be alive.

And the worst part? I’m so sad, but I’ve reached the point where I can’t even cry. It’s like my emotions are exhausted from carrying the weight of everything and everyone.

I have fought tooth and nail to be seen—not just as a mother, but as an athlete, a creator, a woman led by God’s vision. And somehow, even after helping other women through my work, I feel lost behind it all. Like the light I’ve lit for others, left me standing in the shadows.

Everything seems to come so easily for my partner. But me? I’m always doing the work that no one wants to do but that everyone depends on.

I get no credit… and yet everything would fall apart without me.

And there’s another part of this that cuts deeper than most people know: the void of not having a mother — and for most of my life, not having a father either. That emptiness carved something into me. It makes that tiny 1% of myself feel even more fragile, like taking time for me is some kind of abandonment. Like doing something for myself is stealing from my kids, even though I know that’s not true.

But being motherless in a world that also seems to reject motherhood… that’s a wound inside a wound.

Especially in surfing. People tell me there’s “no pressure,” that I should just have fun — but they don’t understand. I love performing. I love surfing at my highest level. It thrills me. It wakes me up. It’s one of the few places I still feel like I belong to myself.

And yet most days, I’m on the beach watching my partner and everyone else surf all day, every day, while I sit on the sidelines. So when I do finally get my window, I don’t want to watch — I want to surf. I want to rip. I want to feel that fire in my body again. I want to chase my own edges, not everyone else’s dreams.

But the guilt, the loss, the pressure… it all tangles together. And I’m left trying to decide whether I’m selfish or simply starving.

And I need to say this, because it’s the truth beneath everything: I love being a mother. My children awakened me. They cracked my heart open and showed me who I really am. They didn’t take me away from my purpose — they revealed it.

Which is why not doing what I know I’ve been sent here to do feels like I’m failing them. It feels like I’m betraying the very awakening they gifted me. My calling isn’t just for me; it’s for them. It’s for every mother who feels ignored until she finally gives up. It’s for every woman who thinks silence is her only option. I want to free others from this horrible feeling — this invisible cage where we’re told to shrink, wait our turn, or disappear.

My kids didn’t make me smaller. The world did. And I refuse to let that be their inheritance.

I’m genuinely happy when women are recognized in sports — when professional surfers, athletes, and moms who are pros get the spotlight.

That success matters, and it opens doors for future generations. But here’s the painful truth: the world still tells us that to matter, to be celebrated, to be included, you have to already be a pro.

Already established.

Already “someone.”

And that pushes everyday mothers further down the list.

What about the mother rebuilding herself from scratch?What about the woman whose comeback starts at zero?What about the mothers who didn’t enter motherhood with endorsements behind them?

My dream is to tell that story. I know in my bones I’ve done wild, holy work in body, spirit, and mind. I know God chose me for this.

And yet — I can’t even get a real opportunity right now. Will my glory be known here, or only in heaven? That question cuts me deep. It triggers things I can’t always explain. I’m sitting with that ache and looking hard into it to understand what’s broken: in the world that decides who is visible, and inside myself that needs to be seen.

Still, when I look at my kids, I break. I melt. I surrender. Because their happiness is everything to me. I never want them to have a mother who is present in body but gone in spirit. So I keep showing up, even on days I feel like a stranger in my own story.

Add in the toxicity from extended family, the battles behind closed doors, the emotional storms no one knows about—and it’s just… a lot. Too much, sometimes.

So here I am, giving it all to God. Again.Because I don’t know what else to do.

Maybe it’s okay to have days like this—days when I feel like I’m drowning, like I’m losing the parts of me I fought so hard to keep. Maybe it’s okay to admit that the comeback story I dream of feels far away. Maybe it’s okay that right now, being “strong” looks more like surrender than fire.

Some days I’m unstoppable. Some days I feel like I’m sinking.

Both are part of the journey.

If you’re reading this and nodding, or crying, or whispering “me too” under your breath… I want you to know: you’re not alone. You’re not crazy. You’re not ungrateful. You’re not failing.

You’re human. You’re a mother. You’re carrying more than anyone sees.

And God sees every invisible moment you give, every sacrifice you make, every piece of yourself you’ve laid down for your family. He sees you when no one else does.

I’m holding onto that. And maybe today, that’s enough.

Am I Alone?

What would it mean for mothers to take our rightful place at the center of what matters in this world — not silenced, not sidelined, but leading? We build humanity with our bodies and our souls. Our voice should shake the ground. Tell me… do you feel this fire too?

Give it to God,

Love,

Danielle