Another Day in Paradise

On the Identity Crisis of Early Motherhood

B760. That’s me.

I’m sitting at the social security office, waiting for my number to be called, wondering how, despite having made an actual appointment, I still ended up in this DMV-flavored purgatory. But honestly? I didn’t hate the wait. It gave me a second to sit and think, which these days feels like a luxury.

I’m here to change my surname (a decision I postponed for nearly two years). Mostly because of logistics, laziness, a tiny bit of feminism, and maybe, if I’m being real, some fear.

Because changing your surname? It’s very weird. Even when you love your partner. Even when you decide it. Even when you want to do it.

And maybe it’s especially weird when you’re already deep in the trenches of early motherhood, standing at the intersection of “I used to be her” and “I’m becoming this.”

I’m at an interesting point in this timeline, where I’m still so close to the old me that I remember her so clearly (it’s only been 11 weeks). The version of me who moved through the world with more autonomy, who never had to Google “is this normal postpartum,” and who didn’t panic herself out the shower every time she heard phantom cries coming from the other room. The one who had time to think thoughts that weren’t also tied to someone else's comfort, feeding schedule, or temperature.

And now there’s this new me.
The one whose body was recently a home.
Whose brain is scattered, heart is cracked open, and closet is a confusing mix of maternity leggings and sweatshirts she doesn’t care to get spit up on.
The one who loves her baby with a ferocity so wild it makes her cry when looking at her little fingers wrapped around hers.

And here I am. Changing my surname like some kind of metaphor made literal.

Because even if the name change isn’t the identity crisis, it sure as hell touches it.

It’s all wrapped up in the matrescence cocktail (a developmental shift as real as adolescence, just with fewer acne creams and more muslin burp rags).
It’s a time when you’re becoming a new you. And no one really tells you that it’s okay to grieve the old you while embracing the new one. That you can feel lost and found, broken and whole, overwhelmed and grounded…all before lunch.

So yeah, I'm sitting here with my bag filled with binkies and a wireless bra under my sweater, waiting to officially become Mrs. Michaeli. And I’m thinking: maybe it’s not about losing who I was. Maybe it’s about making room for all the versions of me that coexist now. Because fuck, women are so cool they get to continuously shape shift and transform.

Finally—B760. Booth 29. I stand up, try to look like someone who’s got her life together, and hand over my paperwork with a relieved exhale. “I finally get to cross this off my to-do list!”

He asks for my documentation.
Paperwork and documentation? Check.
Passport? Check.
Marriage license?
……at home. On the counter. Next to a cold cup of coffee and a half-eaten protein bar.

He shrugs, explains I’ll need to make another appointment, types something on his computer, and says without missing a beat:
“Another day in paradise.”

And honestly? Same.