Becoming Her Mother

Today is my first full day at home with my daughter since she was born. Writing that still feels unreal. She’s here, sleeping beside me, and I’m sitting in pain, exhausted, emotional, and trying to understand how this is my life now.

I’m overwhelmed in ways I didn’t fully prepare for. I’m a first-time mom, a single parent, running on little sleep, and my body is still recovering from surgery. At the same time, I’m genuinely happy and thankful. I had a safe pregnancy. I had a C-section. My daughter is healthy. I know how much worse this could have gone, and that gratitude lives right alongside everything else I’m feeling.

What makes this moment heavier is how fast everything happened. On June 4th, I went in for what was supposed to be a regular doctor’s appointment. I didn’t know that appointment would turn into an emergency C-section and a three-day hospital stay. I was having contractions, but my body couldn’t feel them. My baby could. She felt everything. Her heart rate was low, and suddenly the room felt serious in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I had placenta previa and was suffering from pre-eclampsia, made worse by my history of hypertension. My anxiety and depression were already present, and in that moment, everything collided. I found myself questioning if I was doing the right thing, questioning if I was ready, questioning if I could really do this. I was stressed, overwhelmed, and trying to process information faster than my mind could keep up. Then I was rushed into an inpatient stay. At that point, there was no more weighing options or second-guessing. This baby was coming—whether I felt ready or not.

She was born on June 5th.

Because we’re in the middle of COVID in New York City, the hospital experience felt rushed and isolating. The rules were strict. For C-sections, we were only allowed to stay two days instead of the usual week to recover. Two days to heal from emergency surgery. Two days to process becoming a mother. Two days to prepare for everything that comes next.

I left the hospital on June 7th in pain. Real pain. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Moving hurt. I remember thinking I regretted doing this at all. That thought scared me, but it was honest. I was exhausted, emotionally raw, and far from feeling strong or confident.

Now I’m home, and everything feels different. It’s quiet, yes—but not empty. The silence still carries my thoughts, my fears, my doubts, but it also carries something new. There’s no real recovery buffer, no pause, just me and my newborn, learning each other moment by moment while my body heals and my emotions settle. I’m anxious. I’m tired. I’m still finding my footing. But underneath all of that, there’s a calm I didn’t expect.

I look at my daughter and feel so many things at once—love, fear, disbelief, responsibility. I want to do right by her. I want to be enough for her. But right now, I don’t feel confident or put together. I feel like I’m learning everything in real time, with no margin for error and no room to fall apart.

Still, when I look at her, I feel happy. Deeply, genuinely happy. She feels heaven sent. Like a gift I didn’t know I needed in the way I needed her. Loving her already feels natural and grounding. She gives me something steady to hold onto, something pure in the middle of all this uncertainty.

I don’t have all the answers yet. I don’t feel perfect or polished. But I know this—I have someone to love me in a way I probably needed to be loved. And right now, that feels like enough.