In just a few days, my daughter will be baptized.
And to my own surprise, I’m not anxious or conflicted or doing it out of obligation.
I’m excited.
The closer the date gets, the more I feel it in my chest. This quiet sense that something new is beginning. Not just for her, but for me too.
Her baptism feels like a marker. A soft but definitive turning of the page.
Because while this ceremony is for my daughter, this journey is something we are stepping into together.
If you’ve read my past pieces, you know that my relationship with religion growing up was complicated. It was forced. Structured without warmth. Practiced without being lived. My parents came from different faiths, yet I was required to practice one of them without ever seeing it modeled in love or consistency. Religion felt like a task to complete. A rule to follow. Sometimes even a punishment.
There was no one sitting beside me, no shared curiosity, no beauty in the process. Just expectations.
I didn’t want that for my daughter.
So when we decided to baptize her, it wasn’t because someone else wanted it. It wasn’t to check a box or keep the peace. It was because I finally saw faith differently. As something shared. Something lived gently. Something that grows with you instead of being imposed on you.
Her baptism feels like a reset. A chance to do this differently.
In 2026, I plan to be baptized too. That matters to me. I want her to grow up watching me learn alongside her. Asking questions together. Finding meaning together. Letting faith be part of our lives in a way that feels grounding, not heavy.
And maybe that’s why this moment feels so emotional. Because it’s not just about what we’re welcoming her into. It’s about what I’m finally allowing myself to approach without fear.
She will be eight months old just two days after her baptism. Eight months. Somehow it feels impossible that she’s already experienced so many firsts. Her first Thanksgiving. Her first Christmas. Her baptism. And soon, her first birthday will be here too.
This season has been full. Heavy at times. Beautiful in ways I didn’t expect.
There have been hard weeks.
Exhaustion.
Survival mode.
Writing about utensil drawers, underwear, burp cloths, and small comforts that somehow became symbols of hope. And through all of it, she’s been at the center. Watching. Growing. Teaching me more than I ever imagined.
Her baptism feels like a pause in all of that movement. A moment to breathe. To say, this matters. We matter. This life we’re building matters.
As we prepare for the day, I’ve added a few toys to her baby registry.
Nothing extravagant.
Just small things she can enjoy for her baptism and the months beyond. Things that will bring her joy as she continues discovering the world. I share this quietly and sincerely, not as an expectation, but as an invitation for those who’ve walked alongside us through words, kindness, and care.
Because if this season has taught me anything, it’s that being seen matters. Being supported matters. And shared joy multiplies when it’s given freely.
In a few days, I’ll hold my daughter and watch her be baptized. And while she won’t remember it, I will. I’ll remember how it felt to choose this intentionally. To step into faith with openness instead of fear. To begin a chapter I never thought I’d get to rewrite.
This is her beginning.
And in many ways, it’s mine too.
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.
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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
Read also: I’m Pregnant And Broke — My Cry For Help
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Julia Michelle on Unsplash
