This time last year, I was a blubbery mess. Behind closed doors, I stared at my newborn daughter, completely petrified and filled with regret. I would look at her and think, “How did I ever think I could do this?”
She seemed so fragile. To me, she was as delicate as a porcelain doll. I feared breaking her with even the gentlest touch. Dressing her felt terrifying—I was convinced I might hurt her neck or somehow cause her pain. Every diaper change set off screams that pierced me to my core. Since she rarely cried otherwise, the sound shocked me, leaving me more anxious than I could express.
I shared my fears with a handful of people, but no one seemed to understand why I was so afraid or why her crying made me feel so paralyzed with anxiety.
Breastfeeding was a struggle from the start. My milk came in slowly, and I developed a milk fever. Post-labor contractions hit like waves, so painful that I would lose my breath each time. I kept glancing at the formula I’d been given, so close to giving up on breastfeeding entirely.
I barely showered. There was no one to hold my baby. I was confined to a small, windowless hospital room that felt suffocatingly hot at 80 degrees, swinging between sweating and shivering from cold sweats. The medications from labor clouded my mind. My hormones plummeted viciously. Then Lo was diagnosed with jaundice, and we were moved to the NICU—the only space available. I ended up next door to a baby who cried constantly. I tried to focus on the positives: my baby was full-term and healthy, and she only cried during diaper changes. But those thoughts often felt too small to counter the overwhelming fear.
Whenever a nurse or doctor left my room, I would collapse into tears. The paperwork was endless, and the lack of sleep made everything feel insurmountable. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and utterly alone.
I was, however, an excellent actress. From the outside, no one would have known the depth of my fear or the weight of the pain I carried—emotionally, spiritually, physically, and mentally. I kept telling myself, this is postpartum life; once my hormones settle, it will get easier. I was partially right—but not nearly enough.
The fear lingered. I was utterly, desperately alone. Only now do I understand that my fear had little to do with me or my baby and everything to do with my circumstances.
Earlier today, I carried both Lois and my niece up and down two flights of stairs, did the laundry, dressed, bathed, and fed them, then strapped them into car seats and drove us to our destination. I laughed. I smiled.
I wish the mother I was last year could see me now. I wish she could see how indelicate my baby is not, but how strong, determined, and genuinely happy she has become. Her joy reflects every choice I made, every fear I overcame, every moment I protected her.
I’m proud and grateful to be here. I will never forget those early days—the pain, the loneliness, the cold, harsh struggle of becoming a mother. I had to trust the love I felt for my child to guide me when I couldn’t trust myself.
I hope that any mother who struggles as I did finds comfort in knowing she is not alone. And a year from now, I promise you will laugh, smile, and feel the same deep joy I feel today. You will do this.
