My name’s Karma. Yes, really. People always joke that I must be trouble. I used to laugh it off. Now I’m not so sure. If names are destiny, maybe mine was always going to lead me here.
I’m 40 now, and a few months ago, I gave birth to my third son. Max, our latest little screamer, came into the world via a rough C-section that left my body stitched, aching, and weaker than I’d ever felt in my life.
My colicky son cries like it’s his full-time job. Honestly, the only thing he’s consistent about is being inconsolable. Some nights, he howls until dawn. My other two boys, Mason and Eli, are eight and five, and their energy could power the East Coast.
Some days, I feel like I’m barely a person anymore — just a walking milk machine, a referee, a nurse, a maid. My hair’s always in a bun, my shirts are stained, and I cry when commercials are too emotional. I know hormones are part of it, but this isn’t who I used to be.
Before all this, I was someone. I was a total career-driven woman who was ambitious and always on the move. I had a sharp blazer collection, a frequent flyer number I practically memorized, and a job I loved, a real career. I used to negotiate deals with executives twice my age and walk out of meetings knowing I owned the room.