I am not a morning person. Against my will, I peel my eyes open to the sound of a very energetic baby then drag myself to the bathroom to hastily wipe my face. I throw on a black top and leggings and call it a day.

I never expected my routine to be like this. I grew up idolizing the 13 Going on 30 mantra “thirty, flirty, and thriving.” Like Jennifer Garner in the film, I thought adulthood would be glamorous. I’d wake up early to waltz into a steamy shower, carefully apply a full face of makeup, and craft a meticulously put-together outfit built on the foundation of chic lingerie.

By my late twenties, it became increasingly clear that this morning routine just wasn’t going to happen for me. A perpetual late riser, I would get ready at my own pace, slowly sipping on an espresso, checking my e-mail, and putting on makeup when and if I wanted. Being a freelance writer afforded me the luxury of time, and I always felt well-rested.

But everything changed when I became a mother at 29. Like every mom knows, your sleep is the first thing to go. Instead of getting up when my body felt ready, the baby’s incessant cry woke me up at 4:30 A.M. Rather than making an espresso for myself, I was trying not to fall asleep while feeding the baby. Motherhood forced me to become an early riser and my self-care habits crumbled. Suddenly it felt like my life was about taking care of everyone but myself.

As the days counted down to my 30th birthday, “flirty and thriving” felt maybe like a bit of an oversell, but prioritizing myself more felt within reach. I always believed in looking good to feel good, but with fatigue and an over-packed schedule, it’d been a while since I really put the time into how I looked.

I was starting to feel insecure. All these other women were managing to raise children and run families with blown-out hair and perfect brows, why couldn’t I? Seeing polished moms in heels strutting around the mall with their strollers made me feel like I was failing at motherhood, like I was letting myself down. The mom pressure to “do it all” was ridiculous: it wasn’t enough that I was keeping a tiny human alive and safe, I felt like I also needed to always look like the best-dressed version of myself.

On those rare days when I did have 30 minutes to myself, my confidence progressively grew during the course of my beauty routine. Nearly in zen mode, I massaged in my tinted moisturizer, puffed on a bit of powder, dotted on blush, and finished my routine off with the power duo of eyeliner and mascara. Typically critical of my appearance, I liked the way makeup gave my eyes dimension. I looked into my own eyes and felt powerful, poised. I decided that my 30th birthday gift to myself would be a semi-permanent version of this look and feeling. I held my breath as I booked an appointment to get eyelash extensions.

On the morning of my birthday, I walked into a chilled studio, took off my shoes, and laid on the table covered by a fuzzy blanket. I was told to close my eyes. And then I didn’t open them again for two and a half hours. As a chronic multitasker, my hands itched to scroll through my phone to add to my to-do list, text my husband to remind him to re-stock on formula, and research how to get my baby to sleep through the night. I was hostage to the process.

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