Friday.
That’s the day the safety net gets pulled out from under me.
My husband — the person who’s been next to me at 5am feeds, diaper blowouts, bottle-washing marathons, and sleep-deprived staring contests with our daughter — is going back to work.
And when I say “work,” I don’t mean a cozy office with lunch breaks and a Slack channel.
I mean: neurosurgery residency.
Eighty-plus hours a week.
No real days off.
Home when the baby’s already asleep.
Back out the door before I’ve had a sip of coffee.
Paid like a teenager babysitting in the suburbs, but expected to perform like a Navy SEAL with a scalpel.
Yes, $3 an hour.
No, that’s not a typo.
Yes, I’m furious. And no, I don’t blame him — I blame the system that eats its young and dares them to unionize. If you’ve ever asked, “Why don’t residents just organize?” try doing it while assisting with back-to-back brain surgeries and still finding time to read, study, and, oh, sleep once every four days. In a field like neurosurgery — where mistakes cost lives — the personal cost of collective action feels too high.
So here I am.
Left behind with a six-week-old baby and two dogs who act like toddlers with tails. Alone for the first time since we brought our daughter home, running on hope, caffeine, and a baby monitor that gaslights me nightly.
And let me be honest — I am terrified.
Not in a quirky, “haha, first-time mom” kind of way. In a “What if I mess this up?” kind of way. What if I fall asleep during a feed? What if I don’t hear her choke? What if the dogs knock something over while she’s in her bouncer? What if I’m not enough?
The intrusive thoughts come out of nowhere. Like the time I watched my husband take her out of her car seat and instantly imagined him tripping, her head hitting the pavement, her tiny life slipping through our fingers in an instant. I didn’t want it. I didn’t believe it would happen. But my brain showed it to me anyway — vivid, violent, haunting.
Is this normal? Does anyone else go through this?
Because I’m scared of admitting it out loud, and I’m scared of not admitting it.
And yet — in the midst of all this terror — something beautiful is happening. She’s growing. She’s finally gaining weight. For weeks, I counted every ounce she drank like a desperate accountant. I Googled “how to know if baby is getting enough” more times than I blinked. But now? She’s filling out her newborn onesies. Her legs have those soft, squishy folds. Her cheeks are rounder. Her eyes are tracking us more smoothly across the room, and her little neck is holding steady during tummy time like she’s trying to say, “Look, Mama, I’ve got this.”
I cried the first time she held her head up for longer than a few seconds. Because it meant she was getting stronger. Because it meant maybe I’m not failing her. Because it meant we’re not just surviving — we’re building something. Slowly. Softly. On shaky legs, but together.
The problem is… we’re still catching up.
When you lose your job a year before your baby arrives (hi, April 2024), and then she decides to show up a month early (surprise, April 29, 2025), you don’t have the luxury of being “prepared.” We still haven’t gotten some of the essentials. Things fell through the cracks because they had to. We were too busy staying upright.
So here’s my ask.
It’s not easy for me to make it. I’m proud. I’m scrappy. I hate asking for help. But motherhood has humbled me in ways I didn’t expect.
If you’ve followed our story, if you’ve felt something — even just once — please check out our baby registry.
It’s not a wishlist.
It’s a survival list.
Formula.
Bottles.
A few basics that help us keep going, that help her keep thriving.
You’re not just buying a gift. You’re giving a new mom a lifeline.
You’re helping me breathe a little easier when my husband is in the OR and I’m holding everything else together. You’re helping a tiny girl who came into the world early, but strong, continue to grow into the powerhouse I know she is.
Even if you don’t buy a thing — comment. Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me the thoughts will fade. Tell me your baby once couldn’t hold her head up either and now won’t stop climbing furniture. Just… remind me I’m not alone in this.
We’ll get through it. One bottle. One diaper. One terrifying, magical, exhausting, miraculous moment at a time.
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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.
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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: Flávia Gava On Unsplash
