For the Woman Who Still Holds onto Her Dreams — WordsByEkta🌿
💌 For the Woman Who Still Holds On to Her Dreams, Softly
You've always shown up.
For the family.
For him.
For every little thing that needed to be done — even when no one noticed.
And now, you've quietly started showing up for yourself too.
In the few pockets of time you call your own, you've chosen to create, to work, to grow —
Not to escape,
But to feel a little more you again.
You're not trying to distance yourself from anyone.
You're not chasing anything louder than peace.
You just want to be seen…
As more than the roles you fill.
But it's hard, isn't it?
When your choices are misunderstood.
When your dreams are met with silence.
When love doesn't yet know how to support this version of you — the one who's evolving.
Still, here you are.
Balancing it all.
Honoring your responsibilities with one hand, and holding on to yourself with the other.
Maybe not everyone understands right now.
Maybe it feels lonely.
But that doesn't make your desire wrong.
It makes it human.
You can love deeply and still want space to bloom.
You can be grateful and still long for more.
And even if the world doesn't clap for this part of you —
I do.
— WordsByEkta🌿
💌 A Little More, For You
I wrote those words at a time when I was learning to hold two things at once — the deep love I have for the life I've built, and the quiet ache of wanting something that was mine alone.
For a long time, I thought those two things couldn't coexist. That wanting more meant I was ungrateful. That choosing myself — even for an hour, even for a paragraph — meant I was taking something away from the people I loved.
No one told me this out loud. But the looks, the silences, the small questions that weren't really questions — they whispered it constantly. Is this really necessary? Aren't you happy? Why isn't this enough?
And the hardest part wasn't defending my choices to others. It was learning to stop defending them to myself.
Because we are taught — women especially, mothers especially — to locate our worth in what we give. In how available we are. In how seamlessly we hold everything together without asking for anything in return. The moment we reach for something personal, something creative, something that doesn't immediately serve someone else — it feels selfish. Even when it isn't. Even when it's the most necessary thing we could do.
But here's what I've slowly come to know: a woman who is slowly becoming herself doesn't become less. She becomes more — more present, more honest, more capable of love that doesn't come from a place of depletion.
The dream you're holding softly? It's not a distraction from your life. It's part of your life. The part that reminds you that you existed before all the roles, and that you deserve to keep existing inside them — not just in service of them.
It doesn't have to be a grand ambition. Maybe it's a blog no one reads yet. Maybe it's a course you're doing after the kids sleep. Maybe it's ten minutes of writing in the notes app on your phone before the day begins. Maybe it's this — just reading something that sees you — and feeling a little less alone in the wanting.
Whatever it is, it matters. Not because it will necessarily become something big. But because the act of showing up for yourself — quietly, consistently, in whatever small way you can — is one of the most radical things a woman in the middle of a full life can do.
So keep going. Not loudly. Not at the expense of what you love. But steadily, softly, the way you've always done everything else — with your whole heart.
You are not behind. You are not too much. You are not asking for too much.
You are just a woman becoming. And that has always been enough to deserve space.
There is also something worth naming about what it costs a woman to give up on the thing she was reaching for. I've seen it — in letters people send me, in comments left at midnight, in the stories shared in quiet corners of the internet. When a woman stops writing, stops creating, stops pursuing the small thing that made her feel like herself, something dims. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But it dims. And sometimes it dims so gradually that by the time she notices, she's forgotten what the light felt like. That is the quiet grief no one talks about — not the grief of losing something external, but the grief of abandoning yourself so slowly you didn't notice it was happening. If you are reading this and that grief feels familiar — please don't wait for permission. Don't wait for the right time, the right support, the right circumstances. Start small. Start tonight. Start here.
If this resonated, you might also find comfort in this letter about feeling lost after motherhood — written for the 2am moments when the weight feels heaviest. You are not alone in any of this. There are more of us than you think, holding our dreams softly, keeping the fire small but alive, waiting for the right season to let it breathe.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
wordsbyekta.gumroad.com
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