Let me just say this upfront:
Pregnancy was my power era.
Yes, I had my moments — crying over spilled decaf, irrationally offended by my partner’s chewing, and losing all sense of portion control when it came to garlic knots — but overall? I felt in control. I felt radiant. I felt…whole.
There was a rhythm to it. A quiet, sacred routine of doctor visits, nursery planning, belly oiling, and obsessing over which bassinet would make me feel like I wasn’t completely winging it. Every kick felt like a love letter from within. Every ultrasound made me believe in something bigger than myself.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was chasing life — life was growing inside of me.
Fast forward to now:
Six weeks postpartum, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a hormonal freight train that doesn’t believe in nap schedules.
No one warns you that the hardest part isn’t childbirth. The hardest part is what comes after. When the adrenaline wears off, your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache, and your brain feels like mashed potatoes that someone forgot to salt.
I love my daughter. Fiercely. Fully. Unapologetically.
She arrived four weeks early — determined, just like her father. And every time I look at her tiny hands, or the way she furrows her brow in her sleep (yes, she’s judging us already), I feel this deep, cosmic awe. Like this little being chose me to be her mother. Like I must’ve done something right in this life or the last.
But in between those magical moments is a raw, jagged fear that keeps me up at night, even when she’s finally asleep.
What if I can’t give her the life she deserves?
What if I burn out trying to do it all?
Here’s the thing:
Her father is a neurosurgery resident — meaning he’s barely home, working marathon shifts that would make a Navy SEAL tap out. We’ve got four more years of this before he starts fellowship. And then, maybe then, comes the “big doctor money” people assume lands the moment you throw on a white coat.
Let me dispel that myth for you right now.
Residency is a financial joke wrapped in a prestige bow.
He’s basically saving lives for the cost of a college intern’s summer stipend. And me? I’m working part-time, writing when I can, clinging to caffeine and hope while trying to pump milk like it’s my full-time gig.
Which brings me to the part where I say something controversial but true:
Exclusive pumping is harder than breastfeeding. But I’m doing it anyway.
For those of you unfamiliar:
- Breastfeeding: Baby latches and feeds directly from the breast.
- Pumping: You use a machine to extract milk, bottle it, store it, heat it later, and then feed it to your baby.
- Exclusive Pumping: You do only the pumping route — no direct latching.
Why am I doing this?
Because formula costs can skyrocket to $1,500+ a year, especially if your baby has sensitivities. I’m trying to stretch every dollar and still give her the very best. But exclusive pumping is no joke — it’s a time-consuming, soul-crushing rhythm of sterilizing bottles, cleaning parts, tracking ounces, and praying your supply doesn’t dip when you’re stressed (which is always).
I’m grateful. I’m tired. I’m spiraling. I’m strong. I’m struggling. I’m in it.
I know we’ll be okay eventually. But right now, we’re not there yet.
And while I don’t have it in me to launch a GoFundMe, we are shamelessly pointing folks toward our Zola Baby Registry. Not because we want a handout — but because we want you to know exactly where your help is going. Every contribution is a tangible act of love — diapers, wipes, the bassinet she’s actually sleeping in now that she’s not in our arms 24/7.
This isn’t a sob story. This is a real story.
It’s messy and magical and mundane all at once. It’s us.
Me, trying to find a new routine outside of the 4-hour feedings. Me, trying to feel like more than just a body with boobs and an Amazon cart full of nipple cream. Me, trying to raise a little girl while navigating this season of “not yet” and “not enough.”
I wouldn’t trade her for anything. But I would trade the guilt. The shame. The fear of asking for help.
So this is me asking. If you want to support our journey, check out our Zola. Send a burp cloth. Or a bottle warmer. Or just a note that says, “You’re doing okay.”
Because some days, that’s all I need to hear.
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From a new mom who loved being pregnant and is still learning how to love herself after birth.
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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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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: NOAA on Unsplash
