Yesterday started like every other day.
Ordinary.
Predictable.
Comforting.
The kind of morning I’ve come to love.
I woke up before my daughter, made her bottle, and started getting things ready for the day.
One of my favorite parts of our morning routine is cleaning her up after a long night in a diaper.
I don’t use wipes first thing in the morning.
Instead, I use a warm washcloth.
It sounds silly, but I always think to myself: if I had been asleep all night, wouldn’t I rather wake up to a warm towel than a cold wipe?
Motherhood has made me think about things like that.
Tiny acts of comfort.
Tiny acts of care.
The little things that make someone feel loved.
After that, I got the girls ready.
The girls being my two dogs.
My daughter loves our walks, the dogs love our walks, and if I’m being honest, I probably need them most of all.
So we headed out.
We spent nearly two and a half hours outside.
The weather was beautiful.
The dogs were happy.
My daughter was happy.
I felt good.
The kind of good that feels increasingly rare these days.
When we got home, I started my usual routine.
Feed the dogs.
Get lunch together.
Tidy the apartment.
Vacuum.
The same things I do every day.
And then I looked down.
At first I thought I was imagining it.
Tiny white specks.
Moving.
Just slightly.
Enough to make me stop.
Enough to make my stomach drop.
I took a photo and immediately sent it to my husband.
He responded almost immediately.
“I think those are maggots.”
I don’t think I’ve ever moved faster in my life.
I ripped up my daughter’s play mat.
More.
Underneath.
Moving.
Squirming.
Everywhere.
I felt like my entire nervous system left my body.
Now, if you’re someone who doesn’t struggle with anxiety or obsessive tendencies, this might sound dramatic.
But I do.
I have always had a touch of OCD.
Not the quirky version people joke about online.
The exhausting version.
The version where your brain latches onto something and refuses to let it go.
The version where your mind starts running through every worst-case scenario simultaneously.
Had my daughter touched them?
Had she put one in her mouth?
Had they spread through the apartment?
Were they on the dogs?
Were there hundreds more somewhere?
How long had they been there?
How did I miss this?
My mind was moving faster than my body.
I couldn’t even think.
I just reacted.
I started searching for the source.
At first, I couldn’t find it.
Then I checked the trash.
And there they were.
The source.
The answer.
The nightmare.
Immediately, I remembered cleaning out the refrigerator the night before.
Then I remembered something else.
A few days earlier, I had also started cleaning out the refrigerator and noticed an unusual number of flies.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it.
Now it all made sense.
The trash was gone within minutes.
Then came the cleaning.
The vacuum.
Then emptying the vacuum.
Then bleach.
Then hot water and salt.
Then vinegar.
Then soap.
Then more hot water.
Then another round of cleaning because somehow the first wasn’t enough for my brain.
Five hours.
Five straight hours.
I scrubbed every inch of that apartment like I was trying to erase the entire day.
Meanwhile, my daughter somehow chose that exact moment to become the easiest child on earth.
I put her in her room before everything started.
She rolled over.
Put herself to sleep.
And slept for four hours.
Four.
Hours.
It felt like divine intervention.
Because there was absolutely no way I could have handled both things at once.
I checked on her every few minutes.
Checked on the dogs.
Checked the floors.
Checked the trash.
Checked everything.
The dogs wanted absolutely no part of any of it.
The moment the vacuum came out and the chaos began, they disappeared into my bedroom.
Honestly, I don’t blame them.
By the time everything was finished, I felt physically ill.
Exhausted.
Disgusted.
Drained.
And still unconvinced it was over.
That’s the thing about anxiety.
The event ends.
Your brain doesn’t.
This morning I woke up and immediately started scanning the apartment.
I found two stragglers.
Two.
And my heart sank all over again.
Since then, nothing.
I’ve checked obsessively.
The floors.
The corners.
The playroom.
The kitchen.
The trash area.
Nothing.
But I still find myself looking.
Still checking.
Still waiting.
Because when something like that happens, especially when you’re responsible for a tiny human who depends on you for absolutely everything, it shakes you.
And maybe that’s what really upset me.
Not the maggots.
Not the trash.
Not even the cleaning.
It was the realization that motherhood has made every problem feel exponentially larger.
Because every problem now has another person attached to it.
It’s no longer just my health.
My safety.
My apartment.
My peace of mind.
It’s hers too.
And that responsibility is beautiful.
But sometimes it’s heavy.
Yesterday it felt very heavy.
Yet somehow, at the end of the day, I found myself standing in my daughter’s room watching her sleep.
Peacefully.
Completely unaware of the chaos that had unfolded around her.
And I realized something.
Maybe that’s the goal.
Not perfection.
Not having every answer.
Not preventing every disaster.
Just creating enough safety that our children never have to carry the things we’re carrying.
Before I end this, I want to say thank you.
Truly.
To everyone who continues to read these pieces.
To everyone who sends messages.
To everyone who has purchased diapers, wipes, or anything from our registry.
You have no idea how much it means.
The truth is, there are days when this community feels more present than the people who are supposed to be closest to us.
That’s difficult to admit.
But it’s true.
I haven’t heard from my father in months.
My mother is wrapped up in a life of her own.
And while I wish our extended family were more involved, I’ve stopped expecting people to become who they aren’t.
Instead, I’ve started paying attention to the people who quietly show up.
And many of those people are complete strangers.
So thank you.
Yesterday was disgusting.
Exhausting.
Mortifying.
But it also reminded me that even on the days when everything feels like it’s falling apart, I’m not carrying it completely alone.
And right now, that’s enough.
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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.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: alisha smith watkins On Unsplash
