No one just rolls out of bed one morning, stretches, yawns and says, “Right, I think my marriage is done.” At least, not in my book. I believe endings creep in like dust – quiet, subtle and only obvious when the light hits just right.

I come from a background soaked in love… and a fair bit of chaos. My childhood was sweet in the early days – both my parents present, our needs and (most of our) wants met. But as we grew older, the storm clouds rolled in. Their marriage collapsed just as I was stepping into my teenage years, which, if you’ve been around my digital corner for a while, you’ve heard me speak about in passing.

Watching it all unfold, I made a vow: Not me. Not my home. I was going to do things differently. I was going to build the unshakeable.

So there I was in my early twenties, marching down the aisle, sparkly-eyed and full of dreams. I was going to get it right. I would fix what my parents couldn’t. I was the eldest, already familiar with looking after everyone else, so caring for people was my default setting.

I grew up in the kind of Seventh-day Adventist home where “potluck” actually meant my mother cooked for almost the entire congregation. After the church service, the elders, deacons, pastors – and probably a few other congregants and visitors – would follow us home like a holy UberPool. Mom cooked, served, cleaned… then we’d all trot back for the afternoon service, house immaculate.

And while a part of me admired that woman so deeply, another part resented the invisible cape she wore – and made us wear too. That balance of awe and exhaustion stayed with me my entire upbringing and still looms to date.

Naturally, when I entered marriage, I went into full-service mode: apron metaphorically on, soul wide open. I gave. I poured. I denied my own needs because that’s what love is, right? Self-sacrifice. Service. The Word says so! But then life taught me something the verses don’t always say out loud – you just can’t keep pouring from an empty teapot, darling. Not even one with gold trim and the finest porcelain.

True service has to come from overflow, not depletion. To serve well, you need to be well. The empowered empower. The liberated liberate. The well-fed feed.

At some point, my therapist (bless his velvet-gloved honesty) looked me dead in the eye and said, “Reframe, Olwethu. Have you failed, or are you free? Who gets to define the story – you, or the echo of expectations?”

Whew.

I had clung so tightly to the idea of holding it together for the kids, but guess what? Kids grow. They start watching you more than listening to you. They start asking questions. And suddenly, I ran out of “baby.”

That’s when I realised I had been serving from fumes. I wasn’t creating a family rooted in intention – I was performing one. Not because I didn’t love, but because I hadn’t yet learned how to love myself, for myself.

Now don’t get it twisted – there were glorious moments. We built a life, a home, a rhythm. We created memories that will live forever in the hearts of our children and in the warm halls of my own. There were years of beauty, laughter, soft Sundays in pyjamas and beautiful random weekday movie nights.

But growth has a sneaky way of bringing both clarity and courage. And with courage comes questioning. I started asking: Was I showing up in love or simply clocking in for duty? Was this performative?

Duty isn’t inherently bad – but it’s incomplete without joy, self-awareness, and mutual nourishment. I hadn’t done the inner work. I hadn’t quote figured out how I needed to be loved. I didn’t even know how to ask.

Looking back, I can say this without hesitation: I had the perfect husband for the girl I was then. There was stability, safety, structure. And I will always be thankful for that chapter.

But then I ran out of baby. And this new woman – the wiser, sassier, slightly more moisturised version of me needed to find herself. And completely lean into her.

Some women find themselves within marriage. Some of us don’t. We need to step back and heal. When the children no longer need nappies and you can’t hide behind bedtime routines, packed lunchboxes or chasing down little people for bathtime, you’re left with one essential question: Who am I when I’m not serving everyone else?

And let me tell you, for a group of women who are always finding things – shoes, socks, misplaced homework – we moms are surprisingly bad at finding ourselves.

But when we do? Oh, the magic. I love that my kids get to get this fuller and more fulfilled version of me.

This journey of rediscovery may just be my greatest accomplishment. I may have run out of baby – but I didn’t run out of me. I’ve run to me and she’s amazing!

And that, my friend, is the very definition of being self-full. 💛