Nine Months In and I’m Learning to Trust Myself

My daughter turns nine months at the end of this month, and I genuinely do not know how that happened. Nine months feels both impossibly long and heartbreakingly short. It feels like I blinked and suddenly she is opinionated, affectionate, expressive, and constantly trying to move her body forward, as if she knows there is more life waiting just beyond her reach.

This morning, reality interrupted the sentimentality in the most mundane way possible. I logged into her pediatric portal, mostly out of instinct, and realized her nine month appointment was never scheduled. Instead, they booked her for a ten month visit. Worse, some of her shots are now technically overdue, and no one told me. No message. No alert. Nothing. I had to discover it myself.

I immediately felt that familiar surge of frustration. The kind that lives in your chest when you are already doing everything you can, and something that should be simple becomes another loose thread you now have to tie up. I am trying to see if I can get her an appointment back home before the end of the month so her data points actually make sense. Growth. Weight. Development. These things matter, and I want them measured when they are supposed to be, not lumped together and skewed because of someone else’s oversight.

This isn’t the first time this office has dropped the ball.

One of the last appointments we had, they forgot we were even there. We sat in that exam room for nearly two hours. She had just finished her bottle. She was overtired, overstimulated, and eventually she got sick. I remember holding her in that room, trying to keep her calm, thinking how unfair it felt that something meant to care for her ended up hurting her instead.

So yes, this is the drama of my week. It’s annoying. It’s exhausting. But I’m working through it.

What surprises me most is that I am also finding my rhythm.

Mornings, especially, have softened.

She’s content sitting in her crib when she wakes up, happily occupying herself while I move through the apartment like a quiet storm of productivity. Laundry gets folded. Dishes get put away. I list items to sell, pack them carefully, and schedule mail pickups so the mailman can take them later that day. It’s not glamorous, but it feels competent. It feels like a woman who knows how to keep things moving, even when life feels unsettled.

And then there’s her body.

She is desperate to move.

Crawling hasn’t fully clicked yet, but walking is clearly on her mind. I use a push walker to help her, and the excitement on her face is almost electric. She squeals. She grips it like she’s holding onto freedom itself. She wants forward motion, independence, momentum.

The problem is the floor. This apartment has carpet that I try not to think about too deeply. It’s not kind to little knees or elbows, especially for a baby who wants to practice movement again and again. Our blankets aren’t cutting it anymore. She needs space that supports her body, not something that restricts or irritates it.

So I added a few things to our baby registry.

A tumbling mat.

A couple of practical pieces she can grow into.

Things that will last.

Nothing extravagant.

Just thoughtful items that support where she is right now and where she’s headed next. If anyone ever feels curious enough to look, it’s there.

Quietly.

Gently.

The way help often enters our lives when we let it.

And despite all of this, despite the logistics and the to do lists and the constant low hum of responsibility, I am loving this phase.

She is so cuddly. She has learned how to kiss, pressing her open mouth against my cheek with total sincerity, and every time she does it, my chest aches in the best way. She is affectionate and warm and wants to be close. I wish I could bottle this version of her. I wish I could pause time right here.

I’ve also started something new with her. Every morning, I read from a book called A Beautiful Year with Jesus. She doesn’t understand the words, of course, but that isn’t the point. I read aloud anyway.

Slowly.

Intentionally.

Hoping the rhythm of it sinks into both of us.

I am learning about Catholicism.

I am preparing, quietly and sincerely, to be baptized within the year. This practice has grounded me in a way I didn’t expect. It has given shape to my mornings and peace to my thoughts. It has helped me feel anchored. It has made me feel less alone.

Today, and the past few days especially, I feel mentally steady.

Capable.

Present.

I feel like a good mother.

Not a perfect one, but a real one. The kind who notices when things fall through the cracks. The kind who advocates. The kind who finds joy anyway.

This is motherhood for me right now. Equal parts logistics and longing. Frustration and faith. Exhaustion and gratitude. I am learning to trust myself. I am learning to accept help when it appears. I am learning to live inside this moment instead of racing past it.

Nine months in, and I am still becoming her mother. And maybe, finally, I am becoming myself too.

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.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.