Being the Heroine of My Story

"We cannot run away from or hide pain. We must face it head-on and transform it into an opportunity for growth." —Daisaku Ikeda

When Ailín and Dylan's life had finally found calm, they decided to take the next step and bring a new life into the world. Ailín was filled with the joy of motherhood, the hope of a bright future, and the excitement of starting a family. But the reality of becoming a mother was nothing like she had imagined.

She didn't sleep at night, and her anxiety about not knowing what to do kept her from resting during the day. Her body tensed with every cry, and dark thoughts crept in: "I can't do this." "Maybe I wasn't meant to be a mother." Her milk supply began to drop. In a moment of sheer exhaustion, she confided to the pediatrician, "I don't think I can be a mom."

That feeling lingered for weeks, as doubt and guilt consumed her. Amidst that emotional storm, a familiar figure emerged in her mind: Oscurita. That inner voice reminded her constantly that she wasn't good enough, that she didn't deserve happiness, and that she would always fall short. It didn't take long for Oscurita to take control again.

"Take a good look at yourself. Do you really think no one will notice?" Oscurita whispered—an echo from the past, dark and intimate.

Seeing her distress, Dylan extended his leave to stay home and support her. Ailín's mother also stepped in to help with the baby. Slowly, the baby began to sleep better, and Ailín found some peace of mind. The change wasn't immediate, but gradual. Eventually, she started to enjoy motherhood—though her inner demons still lingered in the shadows.

She made the important decision to work from home as a script translator. It allowed her to stay close to her son while maintaining financial independence. Though she earned enough to hire help, she chose not to. Her self-imposed expectations kept feeding Oscurita, who lurked nearby, constantly reminding her of her supposed inadequacy—as a mother, and as a woman. Ailín fought not to give in, but the feeling of not being enough never completely faded.

During those years, Dylan remained a loving and committed partner. They shared lessons, mistakes, and triumphs. Like any couple, they had their ups and downs, but they stayed together. Three years later, their second child was born, and things were different. This time, Ailín was more confident. She found greater joy in motherhood. She had learned to balance work and family, and her relationship with Dylan felt stable. Together, they had built a home and raised their children.

But as the years passed and the children grew more independent, something began to shift inside Ailín. Despite everything she had built, she started to feel an emptiness—something she couldn't quite name, but knew was essential to her own happiness.

The true turning point came when her children left for college. The silence in the house revealed a painful truth: Ailín felt alone. In the depths of that quiet pain, she began to question her own existence. The woman who had lovingly raised two kind, confident, independent human beings now stood at an emotional crossroads. She felt invisible—as if her identity had been lost within the roles of mother and wife.

The distance between her and Dylan had grown quietly but steadily. He seemed increasingly absorbed in his work, disconnected from her. One night, as they sat in silence over dinner, Ailín found the courage to speak.

"Do you think we're still the same?" she asked, eyes cast downward.

"I don't know," Dylan replied in a tired voice. "Sometimes I think we're just on autopilot."

"And that doesn't scare you?"

"Of course it does. But I'm exhausted too, Ailín. I just want you to be okay."

It was all Oscurita needed to resurface.

"See? You're not enough. You've lost everything." The voice was cold, familiar.

The hormonal changes of her age made things worse. Sadness cloaked her like fog. She asked for time off work and rarely left her room. She cooked, then returned to bed and numbed herself with TV shows. Everything else seemed pointless.

One night, unable to sleep, she went to the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror—and broke down. She slid to the cold floor, curled up, and wept.

"What's wrong with me? Where did I go?" she whispered.

Dylan wasn't home. He was spending more time away, not wanting to pressure her. Though his distance came from respect, it only deepened Ailín's sense of isolation.

In that moment of deepest darkness, she called Andrea, her oldest friend. Andrea listened quietly and then said:

"You're not broken, Ailín. You're just rediscovering yourself. Ask for help. You don't have to carry this alone."

Following her advice, Ailín started therapy. In that safe space, she began to realize how much of her life had been driven by fear—fear of rejection, fear of not being enough. What stayed with her most was something her therapist once said:

"Each person has a role in this life that only they can fulfill. Be the heroine of your own story."

For the first time in a long while, those words stirred something inside her. Ailín began to dream again. New projects. New questions. New beginnings.

And slowly, with trembling hands but a beating heart, she began to write the next chapters of her life—in her own voice.