Dearest friend,

It’s still me.

Well, sort of.

I’m here but another version entirely.

I’m in a bubble of longing and love.

I know you messaged me this morning or was it yesterday? It’s all a bit of a blur and my phone’s buried somewhere on my bedside table that has never felt so small.

I so badly want to reconnect with you, I want to reconnect with me, too.

Not to mention my husband—there’s always a beautiful little bundle of sleepy breath and squawks between us. Our eyes say so much more now than our mouths ever could.

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I’m canceling a lot, and it’s hard to say why, the anxiety has held me prisoner here a bit, and I want to talk about nothing and everything. I want to pour a glass of wine and laugh with you. But I don’t know how to be her just yet.

I also want to try and get some sleep, I never realized how much I would miss sleep. Even when I’m able to, I’m scrolling through photos or checking if he’s breathing in his cot.

I’ve never had such fulfillment, but I still feel a bit empty sometimes, even though the room is full, even though my heart is too.

I’m still accepting that my milestones now are first smiles, the way he now looks at me in true focus, I told my husband he must definitely know I’m his mother by now. 

I wonder if there will be anything else I can talk about, I wonder if I can even focus on anything else right now. I think some days I am still truly waiting for this to all actually hit me.

I’m a mother now.

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My nights aren’t popping bottles, they’re pouring expressed milk into them or figuring out the latch (and I’m just not ready to attempt this in front of anyone right now). I’ve been poked and prodded and nipples stuffed into mouths, and I just need some time to heal—physically and mentally. I’m not swinging past cafes, I’m heading to postpartum appointments. I’m trying to find time to eat a full meal or shower—all those things that were just muscle memory, now need proper planning.

I’m not waking up with a hangover and texting you right away about last night’s antics, instead, I’m waking up feeling as though I never slept, still feeling hungover. but it’s the baby who’s been drinking all night.

I’m busy thinking about room temperatures and upsizing baby clothes. I’m thinking about if my maternity pad would show through leggings if I were to step out of the house.

The house is a mess and so is my brain, there’s stuff everywhere and I can’t get to any of it. I know you don’t care about any of that, but I still do. I’m learning to lower the bar, one day at a time.

My bones ache, my heart aches, and I also have a headache—I think from this constant mom bun my hair just stays in. I’m not sure I can hold it all together. I know I don’t have to with you, but right now I just need to.

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I’ve cried a lot, sometimes I don’t even know why. I’m having conversations with this tiny, perplexed face who isn’t talking back yet. 

This is my life right now—nap schedules, dressing gowns at 2 p.m., Google searches, doctor appointments, and a constant reminder that my phone storage is full.

It’s hard to swallow, but I want to inhale it all. 

But here I am talking about me, I want to talk about you too.

Oh, it’s a whirlwind, friend, but one I’m glad to be caught up in.

Please keep inviting me out. 

Please keep checking in.

I can assure you it means more than the huge gap between my responses.

It’s hard to explain, but one day soon I’ll try.

I’ll be back, in some shape or form.