I’ve had three babies.
You’d think that by the third, I’d feel confident. That I’d know what to expect. That it would get easier.
It didn’t.
With every birth, I carried the same weight of fear, confusion, and isolation — it just wore a different face each time.
I remember one night with my first baby — it was 3:27 a.m. I hadn’t slept more than 45 minutes in a row in three days. I was holding her awkwardly, trying to latch her on for the fourth time, nipples cracked and bleeding, sweat running down my back, and all I could think was:
“What if I’m doing this wrong and she’s starving?”
I was so scared of hurting her — by not knowing, by not being “good enough,” by not recognizing her cues, by forgetting something important.
I Googled everything. Every cry. Every diaper color. Every hour of sleep. But no blog post ever helped me feel safe.
People said they’d help.
“My mom will come for a few weeks.”
“My best friend said she’ll be around all the time.”
“My husband promised to take some night shifts.”
But by week two, everyone went back to their lives. And I stayed frozen in mine.
Alone in the nursery, holding a baby with one hand and my own unraveling sanity in the other.
The house was a mess.
Dishes stacked. Laundry everywhere.
My phone buzzed with texts that said “How’s the baby?” — but no one ever asked how I was.
I hated opening Instagram. I saw moms in coordinated outfits with clean kitchens and pastel-toned babies. I was in stretched-out leggings and hadn’t washed my hair in five days.
I was crying constantly. But also numb.
I wasn’t bonding the way I thought I should.
And then the guilt would hit — What kind of mother feels like this?
I was terrified to admit it:
I loved my baby, but I didn’t love how I felt.
That’s when I started writing things down — not because I wanted to journal, but because I needed to see my day somewhere outside my head. I tracked her feeds, naps, diaper changes, my moods, my triggers, my tears. I started noticing patterns. I saw that her long crying fits happened after overstimulation. I realized that my spirals hit hardest in the evenings when the sun went down and no one was around.
And slowly… I found a tiny bit of ground under my feet.
I wasn’t better overnight.
But I was less lost.
Now, years and babies later, I still remember that terrifying fog — and I still meet moms who are in it now.
That’s why I created this guide.
Not to give you another perfect morning routine or checklist to obsess over.
But to give you something real.
A space to land.
A moment to breathe.
A hand to hold while everything else feels too loud, too much, too messy.
If you’re reading this and your chest is tight from holding in the tears —
If your baby is finally asleep but your mind won’t quiet —
If you’re scared to say how hard this feels because you don’t want anyone to think you’re failing —
You are not broken.
You are not weak.
You are becoming.
And you’re doing better than you think.
Let this be the start of your healing.
Tap the link and download the guide I wish I had back then.
It won’t fix everything. But it will remind you — you’re not alone, mama.