There are some weeks that feel like months.
This was one of them.
A few days ago, my daughter had her 12-month well visit, and I walked into that appointment feeling proud, emotional, and honestly a little shocked that we had somehow made it through an entire year.
One year.
Twelve months.
Three hundred and sixty-five days of loving someone more than I thought it was possible to love another human being.
The appointment went beautifully.
She’s healthy.
She’s thriving.
She’s hitting milestones.
And apparently, she’s tiny.
I knew she was petite, but hearing that she sits around the 25th percentile for both height and weight made me laugh.
When you’re around your child every day, you don’t always notice those things.
To me, she’s just my little girl.
Perfectly herself.
Part of me hopes she eventually has some dramatic growth spurt.
The other part of me couldn’t care less.
She’s healthy.
She’s happy.
She’s mine.
And that’s enough.
As we were leaving, she received the vaccines that come with the 12-month appointment.
I expected a rough day or two afterward.
What I didn’t expect was for our entire household to fall apart.
Two days later, she spiked a fever.
Not unusual.
Not alarming.
Just miserable.
Then I got sick.
Then my husband got sick.
And suddenly we were all operating on fumes.
To make matters more complicated, I had taken my daughter to the apartment where my husband is temporarily staying for a rotation he’s doing about an hour away.
Thankfully, that rotation finally ends this month.
I cannot tell you how excited I am.
But because I packed quickly, I forgot every single thing a parent actually needs when their child gets sick.
No Tylenol.
No thermometer.
No nasal aspirator.
No backup supplies.
Nothing.
At four o’clock in the morning, my daughter woke up absolutely miserable.
She was crying in a way that immediately told me she wasn’t going back to sleep.
I held her.
Rocked her.
Walked with her.
Tried everything.
Nothing worked.
I knew what she needed.
She needed home.
She needed her routine.
She needed the things I had stupidly left behind.
So at four in the morning, I loaded up a sick baby and drove an hour home.
The entire drive, I felt guilty.
Guilty for leaving my husband.
Guilty for disrupting everyone’s sleep.
Guilty for not packing better.
Guilty for feeling frustrated.
Motherhood is funny that way.
You can do twenty things right and still obsess over the one thing you forgot.
By five in the morning, we were finally home.
I gave her medicine.
Used the nasal aspirator.
Ran her a warm bath.
She hated every second of it.
The betrayal on her face during that bath could have won an award.
But afterward, she melted into me.
Her little body finally relaxed.
And she slept.
Until almost nine.
That entire day became a wash.
Neither one of us felt good.
We moved slowly.
We watched the clock.
We survived.
Sometimes that’s all you can do.
Survive.
Now we’re several days into this adventure, and while she’s doing much better, she still sounds like a tiny congested bulldog.
The stuffy nose remains.
The exhaustion remains.
And honestly, I think that’s the part nobody talks about enough.
When your child gets sick, you don’t get to be sick.
You still have to show up.
You still have to make meals.
You still have to clean bottles.
You still have to carry a toddler who suddenly wants nothing except to be attached to your body twenty-four hours a day.
And somehow, while all of that was happening, I found myself staring at another expense we can’t avoid.
The humidity problem in our apartment isn’t getting better.
If anything, it’s becoming impossible to ignore.
As many of you know, we’ve dealt with mold concerns before.
We’ve tried opening windows.
Running fans.
Borrowing equipment.
Doing everything we can to delay spending more money.
But at some point, reality wins.
A dehumidifier is no longer optional.
It’s necessary.
And when I looked at the price tag and saw nearly $230, I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
But because it feels like that’s how life has gone lately.
Every time we get our heads above water, another expense appears.
Another bill.
Another necessity.
Another thing we didn’t budget for.
I know we’re not unique in that.
Most families are feeling it.
Everything costs more.
Everything.
And yet, when you have a child, some expenses stop feeling negotiable.
If there’s even a chance that excess humidity could contribute to mold, then the decision is already made.
You find a way.
You always find a way.
The truth is, I’ve also been struggling emotionally.
I’m trying to take care of myself.
Trying to stay healthy.
Trying to remain hopeful.
Trying to believe that maybe this month will somehow be different.
But if I’m being honest, I don’t have much hope left for conceiving naturally.
And after everything that’s happened with this fertility clinic, it’s difficult not to feel defeated.
It’s one thing when your body creates obstacles.
It’s another thing entirely when the people responsible for helping you create a family create obstacles too.
I’ve already lost multiple cycles because they don’t have enough capacity.
One physician.
An overwhelming number of patients.
Limited availability.
At 38 years old, every missed month feels bigger than a calendar page.
It feels like time itself slipping through your fingers.
That reality sits with me every day.
Yet somehow, even in the middle of all of this, my daughter continues to be my reminder that miracles can happen.
This tiny little girl who somehow survived fevers, vaccinations, congestion, and a sleep-deprived mother this week still woke up smiling.
Still wanted cuddles.
Still wanted books.
Still wanted to show me every toy she owns for the hundredth time.
Children have a way of reminding us that joy exists even when life feels heavy.
Before I end this, I want to thank everyone who continues to read these updates.
The messages.
The encouragement.
The people who have purchased diapers, wipes, or contributed in ways both big and small.
You have no idea how much that support means during seasons like this.
Recently, I added diapers and wipes back to our Baby Zola registry because, honestly, those are the things we need most right now.
Not the fun things.
Not the exciting things.
Just the basics.
The things that keep a little girl comfortable, healthy, and cared for.
And if supporting us isn’t something you’re able to do financially, please know that simply reading these pieces means more than you probably realize.
Writing has become one of the few places where I can put all of this down.
The exhaustion.
The gratitude.
The fear.
The hope.
The frustration.
The joy.
Because sometimes life doesn’t fall apart all at once.
Sometimes it unravels quietly over the course of a week.
And somehow, you keep showing up anyway.
That’s what we’re doing over here.
One day at a time.
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UPDATED BIO:
Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.
In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.
Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.
If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
— –
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Juan Encalada On Unsplash
