Don’t rush.
You’ll look in the mirror and long for the shape that once felt like home. But don’t rush to return to her. There is no going back—only forward.
You’ll answer “She looks like you” with an unreasonably pleased “thank you”. You’ll study your baby’s face, searching for pieces of your history—your nose, his eyes, someone’s chin.
A piece of your heart now lives outside of you, and you’ll want it held gently. Your protectiveness will rise like a wave, matched only by a piercing vulnerability. Don’t rush to contain it.
Your husband will cradle your baby with a reverence that’s almost sacred. You’ll fall helplessly in love with him all over again. Don’t rush past these moments.
The gifts you cherish most will teach you that practicality is a form of love. The things you hold dear now will be the old Graco rocker that soothes your baby to sleep, the never-ending stash of burp cloths, the onesie you reach for in the dark.
Overwhelm will be an unwanted guest. But don’t rush to greet it all alone. You need support. Take it. Ask for it. This isn’t the time to prove anything. It’s the time to soften, to receive.
You’ll let go of relationships that no longer serve you. You won’t have the energy for small talk or toxic dynamics. Your world has narrowed to what matters.
Breast or bottle doesn’t matter as long as your baby grows. Love comes in many forms.
Whether you had a C-section or a normal delivery won’t matter either. You brought life into the world—how you did it doesn’t define you.
Hormones are real and those first days are raw and unsteady. Don’t rush to fix it. Let the tears fall. Let the feelings rise. Feel all the feels.
Stories of mothers and children may bring tears to your eyes, because now, you know. You understand the weight and wonder of that bond.
And maybe, in your hardest moments, you’ll be tempted to speed things up—to get to the part where you sleep more, feel better, feel normal. But remember this:
By doing things faster, we aren’t going to bring tomorrow today.
So don’t rush the long, slow days that feel like forever but are gone in a blink. Don’t rush your own becoming.
Let this year unfold in all its holy mess…
Let it make you new.
Here’s another poem I wrote about motherhood and the village that raise our children, it’s titled ‘The Women I Share My Baby With’.
No Comments