I Spent Years Wanting to Be Somebody… And I Already Was

When I became an EMT, it felt like I had finally taken a step toward becoming somebody. But even then, it wasn’t enough for me. I always wanted something more. I dreamed of having a name for myself—something my kids could look at and be proud of. Something that screamed, “She did something with her life.”

Now, looking back, I know that desire ran much deeper than ambition.

Growing up adopted, I spent so much of my life trying to be accepted. Not just loved in the general sense, but truly seen. I felt close to the daughter in the family and their youngest son—I could be myself around them. But when it came to the parents… I never felt like I fit. I wasn’t the all-star athlete like their biological daughter. I wasn’t the big-deal football player like their son. I wasn’t even theirs, and I was constantly reminded of that.

I was… me. I played soccer, ran track, swam on the team, did marching band. I was in a lot of things—things that meant something to me—but they never seemed to matter to anyone else.

That planted a seed in me early on. I thought, “Maybe if I become someone important, I’ll finally be enough.”

So I chased that. I worked hard. I pushed myself. I became an EMT, and I loved the job more than I ever expected. But even then, I wanted more. I started studying to become a paramedic, with dreams of becoming a firefighter. Not just any firefighter—I wanted to do rescue missions in the South, fly out West to help fight wildfires. I wanted my life to matter.

One day, I was telling my truck partner all these dreams. He looked at me and said, “You already are somebody. Being an EMT is being somebody.” But in that moment, I didn’t believe it. I told him, “But I don’t have a four-year degree. I’m just an EMT.”

Later, I said that same thing to someone else—“I’m just an EMT”—and they stopped me mid-sentence. “You’re not just an EMT. You help people when they can’t help themselves. That’s something.”

Even then, though… it didn’t sink in.

Then everything changed.

After my stroke, my world came crashing down. I lost my job, my physical strength, my dreams. I lost the identity I had built my life around. And worse—I realized how much I hadn’t appreciated it while I had it. That’s one of life’s cruelest lessons, isn’t it? Losing something you didn’t even realize you were taking for granted.

My depression hit hard. I felt useless, aimless, angry. I spent so many nights crying and asking God, “What do You want from me now? What lesson am I supposed to learn from this? What good is left in me?” I went from being someone who ran into emergencies to someone who couldn’t even carry a laundry basket up the stairs without help. I didn’t recognize myself.

Now, I was just a disabled mom. No career. No title. No path forward.

Then a few months ago, I had brain surgery. I went in for an angiogram and my kids waited while I was in the operating room. While they waited, they were given blank sheets of paper and markers. And they drew me pictures.

When I woke up, I saw them all.

Each one had bright colors, silly drawings, crooked hearts—and the words, “I love you.”

And that’s when it hit me.

This is who I am.

I’m their mom. I’m the only one who can be that for them. No one else can take my place. No job, no degree, no title in the world could ever compete with that role. And they don’t love me because of what I do. They love me because I’m me.

Yes, I still miss being an EMT. There’s a part of me that always will. But I know now, with everything in me, that this is where I’m meant to be. I’ve spent years trying to earn a name for myself… and my name has been Mom since the day I held my first baby in my arms.

I used to beg to be seen, to be known. And all along, little eyes were watching me. Little arms were reaching for me. Little hearts were loving me with no conditions.

And now, I’m working on making sure my kids always feel seen—no matter what they choose to do or who they choose to be. Whether it’s sports, art, music, science, farming, or something that doesn’t even have a name yet. I want them to know their worth doesn’t come from their performance. They don’t need a title to be valuable. I want them to feel accepted in ways I never did, so they don’t spend years in the spiral I had to climb out of.

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Can you relate to that?

Have you ever chased something you thought would make you whole—only to realize what you truly needed was right in front of you the whole time?

If you’ve ever struggled with identity, purpose, or grief over what you’ve lost… I see you. And maybe, just maybe, you already are exactly who you were meant to be.

Let’s remind each other of that.