Journal 15: Postpartum

Sunday, September 13th, 2026

Postpartum- the great stripping down. The laying bare. The raw exposure.

And the making new.

The realignment. The narrow focus. The sacred essentials.

It has been a time of unexpected re-traumatization. Not for all. I envy the new mothers who seem to fall elegantly into their ten-toed bubble of joy. A beloved friend of mine absolutely glowed and still glows in new motherhood. “Don’t you just wish this time lasted forever?!” I smiled at her text and at her happiness. In absolutely no way could it compete with, nor diminish my struggle. But I did want to text back, “NO!” and then immediately felt sad about that.

Or, the new mothers who bear the burden with a knowing smile, who handle the immense hardship with grace. Many complimented me on doing just that, when my insides felt like they were revolting and screaming into the void, “Why me!?!” Why can’t I adjust to this work, this new duty? Why am I finding it so hard?

There is also profound joy, a nuance most understood by fellow mothers and that is a community I am grateful to be welcomed into. It is simply everything- all at once the strongest and the most fragile I have ever felt. The most capable and the most depleted. The highest and the lowest.

And with it, a begging for care. And for acknowledgment. “I grew this skull. I grew this brain”, I weave my fingers in and out of her velvet hair. Life goes on and the world keeps spinning, how? Can’t it stop for just one second each time a woman performs the miracle we take for granted? We would be undoing the entire framework of time.

If there is one lesson I have learned it's that the brand new mother does not need much help accessing her devotion, but she does need help sustaining it, sustaining herself. There are many suggestions that involve breaking this bond- give the baby a bottle and take a break. Let me hold the baby, you lay down. We can watch the baby while you enjoy some time for yourself. Certainly these can help and do help given the circumstances. But how might I be empowered in my new role? How can you help me as a mother and child, a precious duo? What other things can you take off my hands besides the baby I grew for nine months?

I sacrifice everything as mother and over the last few months, I have discovered that sacrifice is beautiful. I am unbelievably strong to do it. This sacrifice is not weak and it is not the entry into martyrdom. I used to fear it and I simply do not anymore. But, I still fear the disempowered sacrifice. The taken-advantage-of sacrifice. The sacrifice under both capitalism and patriarchy. How can we step in and care for the new mother who is sacrificing everything and how can we help her feel her own strength? Even if she doubts it. Even when she doubts it.

We begin to see her. We acknowledge her pain. We celebrate her who feels elated and we care for her who feels down. We implement a network of support for all. We exalt mother and we place her first as she places herself second, third, or fourth. Or last.

There is enough focus on the new baby. The mother’s entire existence shifts towards its innocent newness. Instead I write for her.

***

April ? … 23rd, 2026

Yesterday marked Lily Maren’s first week in the world.

Her fussy discomfort has improved a bit. I think I have to cut out dairy. A couple of stretches of sleep in the bassinet at night. Getting to know each other, learning and trying to be gentle in the vast space of vulnerability that is postpartum.

My stitches ache between my legs. More so today, I think some are falling out. My breasts have lost the painful engorgement, but have retained the leaking. Or in my case, the soaking. I am tired of being so consistently damp. I wear burp clothes intended for the baby. I hope she doesn’t mind.

April 24th, 2026

Today is a tough day.

Many tears. How I have to carry on as a mom, despite.

My stitches ache. Bleeding returned. My back itches with the burns from the epidural tape and friction of pushing. My breasts fill with milk and swell and leak, turning everything wet and cold. It is a constant hum of visceral discomfort with sharper notes of pain.

Do all new moms wonder how they can possibly handle it all?

April 27th, 2026

Tough night last night. I am icing my breasts as I write this.

I keep wondering if I feel happy in this. There is so much discomfort. But I am not sure that “happy” is the point right now. The hardship feels more intense in a way, more overwhelming, more upfront in my consciousness. The love feels softer, somewhat automatic, always in the background. Not as loud, but perhaps stronger? Maybe my joy will find me later. Like pregnancy, the first trimester was weeks of suffering.

Maybe it’s a different kind of joy. Some days, some moments.

Maybe I’m just having a hard time.

Right now Lily is sleeping on Tay, both arms stretched confidently overhead.

May 1st, 2026

May Day, the tradition of gifting lily of the valley for luck. “A return to happiness”.

Yesterday I passed a blood clot, delivered by what felt like little contractions, bent over, luckily in close proximity to the toilet. I googled and it seems to be the placenta scab. Completely “normal”. The search results advise me to watch out for more clots with a risk of death.

She was hungry, so I changed my pad with shaking hands and held her to my breast.

May 4th, 2026

I wish I could spend one day with newborn Lily in my body pre-pregnancy. One day starting with my former self. Not managing breastfeeding and the physical toll of continuous giving. Plus the mental load of learning this new skill and worrying and practicing. Not achey with milk and engorgement and dodging clogged ducts. Not stitched up. Not bleeding for three weeks straight. Not a rug-burned back and puffy legs and sallow skin from depleted iron stores. Not stalled digestion and reorganized organs.

I wish I could experience the simple joy of her, instead of the survival of my own broken body.

May 19th, 2026

There used to be good days and bad days, blessed by the slowness and abundance of time. Good days were enjoyed in flow and the bad ones slept away to start anew. Now life is smaller- good moments and bad moments, both contained in whole days that at once fly by and drag on.

She is so lovely. She now has rolls on each wrist and about three chins. She coos and smiles (and grunts!).

May 27th, 2026

6 weeks! All of our concerns over latch and reflux- no bother to the lactation consultant today. We are hyper vigilant first-time parents and they have seen it all. A relief to know our big worries are so small.

Did I write how our neighbourhood is filled with lily of the valley?? Almost every front garden. The magic of this baby.

June 14th, 2026

Breeze and birdsong through the open window. Leaves dancing in their dappled light. My sweet baby smiling and adorable. Her dad cares so much. These photos I take to document it all.

My favourite thing to do together is breathe. I thought it would be breastfeeding, but so far it’s the breath. I take a deep inhale and a long, intentional exhale and I feel her follow suit. I hear her relaxed sigh. The rigidity of her body releases tenderly in my arms. It’s a blessing to be able to give her a safe place to be. In and out. Moment to moment, inviting in a little peace.

Going to put the pen down and kiss the ten toes that have started squirming.

July 1st, 2026

The first of July and 11 weeks postpartum.

So far, I don’t feel my experience reflected back at me. The depth, the intensity of what I am doing gets lost somewhere between me and the outside world that never stops moving.

They see a separateness that does not exist. Exclusively breastfeeding, we are still growing together, still physically bound to each other. She may live outside of me now, but she is still of me, every single drop of milk building the baby that coos and smiles at you when you brush her cheek. Pouring life into something outside of me is draining. At least in the womb it was all contained.

This is the hardest I’ve ever worked and yet in my depletion, I slide into the background. Comforting the fuss. Nursing alone in quiet rooms. Handing over my blood and bone to be held. I understand why postpartum moms feel invisible. They are not the focus, but they are wanting to be held. In all of their doing, in all of the life they are still creating.

July ? … 11th, 2026

I don’t need solutions or fix-its. I need to be seen in the grief. I need the pain to be recognized. Named.

That is human connection. The act and the gift of seeing each other as is.

Someone outside of me saying, Wow this is heavy. This is huge. I see what you are doing each time you feed your baby. Each time you eat a cold meal with one hand. Each time you glimpse your new body in the mirror. I see how colossal this is. I see you.

To be denied that recognition is crazy-making. It is lonely. And it asks you to carry the burden alone. The simple act of being seen lightens the load.

The indignity of naked, sagging, milky breasts and soft nudity. Last night’s dinner spilled on my chest, the sheets. My side of the bed carries the mess. Running out of time to wash my hair. Body still recovering. I am so proud of myself and yet sometimes, I can’t help but feel embarrassed.

And the love. The urge to feed her, make sure is she is nourished. To hold her, to comfort her. “Take a break”. She needs me. She is so young and this is fleeting. Dependent, perfect baby.

However raw, motherhood begs to be witnessed.

July 16th, 2026

What would Mary Oliver say about the world burning?

I think she would tell me to take my baby out to the garden where a brown bunny feeds on the grass.

It is very brave to hop into the middle of the lawn for breakfast. It is very brave to be hungry in a world that eats the tender. It is very brave to need.

My baby watches the bunny hop into the raspberry bush for safety, its courage rewarded with the sweet ripeness of fruit.

August 1st, 2026

August! July is through, my least favourite month of the year. Except for last year, when I spent it with Taylor in Victoria and made a baby.

It is my life force to love and to hope. Let me reconnect with it, even in the dark.

August 18th, 2026

I am, as noticed by my therapist, finding it to be healing and giving and blessed when someone sees me in this great shift of existence. And when someone adjusts, giving loving space to all of the changes. So many changes, still changing.

It is a corrective experience to be seen in this becoming. This time, I surround myself with tender seers, the ones with curiosity towards the unwritten stories.  The question-askers, those willing to try something new. Excited to meet Lily and to meet her mother, as if for the first time. Those in eternal flow, filled with eagerness to learn me all over again.

Hold the new mother, not the baby.

It is a corrective experience to give this to myself. “That exhausted part inside of you… What does it tell you? What does it want you to do?”

I take a breath and the answer is immediate, almost as if it were waiting, achingly and patiently, for me to listen.

“Write. And tend to my baby. It feels devotional. I want to breastfeed her and care for her and all of this energy that I spend on these other things, I want to funnel that back into myself instead.”

The tiredness in me might come from multiple night wakings and a few hundred litres of milk, but the tiredness in me still yearns to be close to Lily. In truth, it started before her, growing exhausted with each decision to self-neglect, each instance of ignoring that inner voice, each carried burden. For what? Harmony? Likeability? Money?

“Listen and honour”.

With a familiar tingle, my shirt grows damp, an inconvenient albeit reliable cue. I am going to put the pen down. I am going to feed my daughter.