It’s been a few weeks in this temporary apartment, and for the first time, I feel like I’m starting to find a rhythm. Small victories, tiny freedoms, but victories nonetheless. This week, I bundled up my daughter — almost nine months old now — and took her on her first little walks around the complex. The thermometer read about 15 degrees, so yes, I was hyper-cautious. Her puffy snowsuit was layered over cozy onesies, mittens secured, hat snug, and little boots that I kept checking every ten minutes.
The dogs wore their snow boots too, because salt and ice melt might seem harmless to us, but it burns their paws and can crack their pads. I’ve become acutely aware of how even the tiniest details matter in these moments of exploration and safety. Every step outside felt like a victory, not just for her, but for me.
The snow these past few days has been magical, in a quiet, restorative way. There’s something beautiful about not having to shovel, watching her giggle at the flakes drifting down, seeing our dogs leap and spin in joy. Even in 15-degree weather, carefully measured and monitored, these small adventures make this temporary, otherwise sterile apartment feel a little more like a home.
And the best part?
No messy paws to clean when we come back inside. The boots are a small shield against chaos.
This past weekend, my husband finally had a break. We went home to our real apartment, the one we worked so hard to make feel lived-in and warm. We just existed there for a couple of days: snow, our baby girl, the dogs, football on the TV, and homemade pizza. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours, and for those brief hours, the stress of relocation and the confines of a temporary space melted away.
Yet life’s little moments of joy never come without context, without a shadow of complication. On a family call, my mother and father-in-law shared that my husband’s brother and his wife had both been promoted during maternity and paternity leave.
Truly wonderful.
But my mother-in-law kept highlighting how fortunate they were: the wife’s mother cooking for them, their eldest daughter embracing her role as a big sister. “What a life!” she kept saying. And while I know she didn’t mean to sting, it did. She knows our reality: how little support we have here, how much my mom sacrifices to come up, how she gives us the gift of time rather than financial support. I just needed to emphasize that too. That we are grateful, but our path is textured differently, built out of effort and love rather than convenience.
The little frustrations compounded.
The pottery my daughter and I made — Christmas-themed, her tiny footprint immortalized in clay — was supposed to travel with them at the end of the month. Now? March.
March!
I had to ask them to mail it, and I’d cover shipping. Who wants a Christmas mug in March? It’s more than a mug. It’s a moment, a memory, a piece of our time together.
And yet, through all this, I am surviving.
I am finding my footing.
I am grateful.
Grateful for this temporary home that allows me to watch my daughter discover snow, to witness my dogs’ pure joy, to take a breath knowing I’m giving her experiences and safety. Grateful for my mom, who comes up, giving her time, teaching my daughter to trust, to bond with someone outside of her parents, letting me reclaim moments for myself, a rare gift in this whirlwind of a life. Grateful for this community of readers and friends who show up, even virtually, reminding me that care and connection exist outside immediate family.
Am I bitter?
Sure.
Overwhelmed by bills and logistics?
Absolutely.
But I’m alive.
I’m present.
I’m teaching my daughter that life is felt in the small victories: the bundled-up walks in 15-degree weather, the laughs at snowflakes on her tongue, the tiny acts of care that make a home even when the walls are temporary.
We’re living. And for now, that is 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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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: Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash
