I always knew motherhood would change me, but I never imagined it would crack me open in ways I’m still trying to understand.
People tell you about the joy, the milestones, the first giggles, the way your heart swells when your baby recognizes your voice. But nobody prepares you for the moments when you’re holding a burning-hot infant at 2 a.m., whispering prayers into the darkness, wondering if you’re doing anything right.
My baby is seven months old now — curious, alert, sensitive, and incredibly aware of every sound, every movement, every shift in energy around her. She watches me with these wide, searching eyes like she’s constantly trying to read the world. And now, she has another fever.
The last time she got routine vaccinations at four months, she spiked a fever. I thought it was a one-off. I thought maybe we just had bad luck. But here we are again after her next appointment — another round of shots, another fever, another spiral into panic.
Except this time she’s older.
This time she understands discomfort in a deeper way. This time she cries until her voice cracks, and all I can do is hold her tighter.
She fights sleep with every ounce of strength in her little body. She drifts off, then jolts awake with a startled cry, clinging to me like she’s afraid to let go. I’m exhausted, yes, but my heart hurts more than my body ever could. There is something uniquely devastating about watching your child suffer when they don’t understand why.
And the details — the tiny, ordinary details — are what get me.
She cried during her bath.
Her favorite part of the day.
The one time she usually relaxes and smiles and splashes.
That cry wasn’t her normal fuss. It was the kind of cry that goes straight through a mother’s chest — the cry that says, “Something hurts,” even though she can’t verbalize it. And then she cried again during her lotion and massage, which she usually melts into. I rub her with Vaseline religiously because I’m terrified she’ll inherit my eczema — but last night she just sobbed.
That’s when I knew it wasn’t just “after shots.” She was sick.
So I monitored her fever like my life depended on it. Rectal thermometer. Forehead thermometer. Again and again, switching back and forth because my anxiety convinces me that one is lying. I’m constantly refreshing numbers, rechecking, hovering, feeling her forehead, watching her breathing. It’s like my brain refuses to relax until her temp drops back into the safe zone.
This is the part of motherhood no one romanticizes.
The part that feels like you’re fighting a war you never trained for.
But amid all this, something else has shifted in my life: work.
A few weeks ago, I made a choice. One I should’ve made earlier, but life doesn’t always give you the clarity you need until you’re already in survival mode. I decided to work at night. To keep the daytime for caring for my daughter. I still take calls during the day because I have to, but now I’m not dividing my mind into a thousand pieces like before. I can be patient. I can be present. I can pay attention instead of feeling like I’m constantly failing at everything all at once.
This change has been everything.
A small miracle in the middle of the chaos.
But the truth is, this decision wasn’t made in peace. It was made because I’m trying to survive a toxic workplace.
I’ve talked around it before, but let me say it plainly: my boss is toxic.
He has drained me emotionally, mentally, psychologically.
And this week? While I’m barely sleeping, while I’m soothing a feverish baby, while I’m carrying her around the house praying the Tylenol kicks in — he’s been contacting me more. Pushing more. Asking more questions. Almost like he’s trying to catch me slipping. Almost like he doesn’t believe she’s sick.
I actually had to send him her lab results.
Lab results.
From her positive flu test.
Who makes a mother prove her child’s illness?
Who operates with that level of coldness?
But this is my reality right now. I’m trying to save money. Trying to find a way to leave. Trying to rebuild something better for my baby and myself. The economy is tight, opportunities aren’t falling from the sky, and I’m doing everything I can to hold it together until I can make a clean exit.
And yet — this is where the light comes in.
People have shown up for us in ways I didn’t expect.
To everyone who purchased diapers from the Baby Zola registry… thank you.
To everyone who Venmo’d us, especially during the holiday season… thank you.
To everyone who reached out with kindness… thank you.
I can’t express how much that support meant. When you’re a new mother trying to juggle a sick baby, a toxic job, and sleepless nights, every act of kindness feels enormous. It makes you feel seen in a world that often overlooks struggling mothers. It makes you feel human again.
When the thermometer flashes another high reading…
When I’m pacing the bedroom floor in the dark…
When I’m replying to work messages with one hand while rocking my daughter with the other…
I remember the people who helped lighten the load.
Your kindness has kept me standing.
This isn’t the glamorous part of my journey.
It’s messy, exhausting, emotional, and raw.
But it’s real.
I’m learning how to be a mother.
I’m learning how to protect my peace.
I’m learning how to draw boundaries in a world that doesn’t like when women draw them.
And I’m learning that even in struggle, there is hope.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for caring.
Thank you for showing up when I needed it the most.
This is where I am in life right now —
trying, fighting, surviving, and still loving every moment I get to hold my baby close, even on the fever days.
And somehow… that’s enough to keep going.
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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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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: Aditya Romansa on Unsplash
