I’m Back. And Everything Feels Different Now.

It’s been a long time since I’ve written about my life in any real, consistent way, and I want to acknowledge that.

To anyone who’s been reading me for a while and wondered where I went, I didn’t disappear exactly. I just… stepped back. I needed space from writing, from processing everything publicly, from trying to articulate a life that has felt like it’s been moving faster than I can keep up with.

But I’m back now.

And I’m going to start writing at least once a day again. Not because I have everything figured out, but because I don’t. And because somewhere in the mess of it, I still believe in putting language to lived experience.

There are updates. A lot of them, actually. But none of them feel like neat announcements. Life hasn’t been neat lately.

The most important thing is this: my daughter turns one in just a couple of days.

I don’t know how to explain what that sentence does to me.

One year ago, she didn’t exist in the way she does now. And now she is fully here. Loud, expressive, determined, funny, emotional, wildly opinionated, and completely herself. Watching her become a person has been one of the most disorienting and beautiful experiences of my life.

She is crawling like it’s a competitive sport.

Fast.

Determined.

Headfirst into everything.

She wants to touch everything, understand everything, be part of everything. She is trying desperately to walk, pulling herself up on anything she can find like the world is something she refuses to sit out of.

And she is funny.

Deeply funny.

She has a personality that feels too big for her size.

She is also incredibly cuddly. The kind of child who leans into you like she knows exactly where home is. She hugs hard. She clings. She melts into me in a way that sometimes stops me in my tracks.

And I’ll be honest, she is also sassy in a way I did not anticipate this early. She has opinions. Strong ones. She lets me know when she is unhappy, and she does not hesitate. It is exhausting and hilarious in equal measure.

She is, in every way, becoming her own person.

And I am in awe of her.

Over the past few weeks, while I wasn’t writing, I’ve been thinking a lot about her next stage. I’ve been trying to be present with her in a way that feels less fragmented. Less distracted. More grounded in the reality that this time is not repeatable.

I’ve also been thinking about sleep, transitions, and what it means to give her a space that grows with her.

We’re moving toward a floor bed.

A toddler bed that sits directly on the ground.

Simple.

Safe.

Independent.

I’ve been looking into mattresses, and I’ve been leaning toward a Nectar mattress because we already have one ourselves and it has been one of the few things in this season of life that has actually held up under everything residency, stress, exhaustion, and constant movement has thrown at us.

It’s not about luxury.

It’s about durability.

About something that can last through the next few years of her growing into herself.

I’ve added it to our Baby Zola registry for her birthday, not as a demand or expectation, but as something I genuinely feel excited about for her. If anyone feels inclined to look it up or contribute in any way, it would mean more than I can really articulate. Not because it’s a mattress, but because it represents a transition into her becoming more independent in her sleep, in her space, in her world.

That’s really all I’m thinking about for her birthday this year.

Something simple.

Something intentional.

Something that feels like her.

We’ve also received a few Montessori-inspired gifts already, and I’m so grateful. I’ve become a little more thoughtful about toys lately in a way I didn’t expect. Less noise. Less stimulation. More imagination. More room for her to think and explore instead of just react.

It’s funny how motherhood quietly changes your entire definition of “enough.”

My husband is also nearing the end of his third year of residency, which feels like its own kind of milestone. Next year he moves into his research year, and I cannot overstate how much I am looking forward to that shift. It will mean more time at home. More time with our daughter. More time for our family to exist in the same space without constantly passing each other like ships in the night.

Don’t like ads? Become a supporter and enjoy The Good Men Project ad free

Right now, we are still in the grind of it. The early departures. The late returns. The days that blur together. But there is an end in sight to this specific chapter, and that alone feels like oxygen.

And then there’s the quieter, more complicated thought I keep returning to.

Whether we should try again.

Whether our daughter will have a sibling.

She is our miracle in every sense of the word. And I don’t use that lightly. The journey to her was long, emotionally and physically draining, financially exhausting in ways I am still unpacking. IVF changed my body and my sense of self in ways I am still learning how to hold.

We actually have coverage for a few more rounds through his insurance now, which is something I don’t take for granted. But knowing that doesn’t make the emotional weight any lighter. IVF is not just medical. It is hormonal, psychological, and deeply destabilizing in ways people don’t always talk about. It asks everything of you at once.

And I don’t know if I can do that again.

But I also know what I feel when I watch her with other children. How gentle she is. How curious. How she leans in, how she observes, how she tries to connect. I see something in her that makes me think she would love a sibling. That she would thrive in that chaos and companionship.

And I know myself well enough to know this: I don’t know if I would regret trying again more… or regret not trying at all.

Both thoughts exist at the same time.

That’s the part no one really prepares you for. That motherhood doesn’t simplify anything. It multiplies everything.

Love. Fear. Hope. Uncertainty.

All of it.

So I’m sitting in that space. Not rushing it. Not solving it. Just holding it alongside everything else.

Her birthday is coming. Mother’s Day is coming. Life is moving whether I feel ready or not.

And I think that’s what I’ve been learning most of all.

You don’t wait for clarity. You live inside the questions.

And somehow, in the middle of all of it, I have never loved so deeply or felt so human.

—

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.

💸 Donate here — Venmo

🍼 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.