How to support new parents postpartum

The first day we came back home with our baby girl, my partner’s family came over excited to meet the baby. As my mother was still awaiting her visa (long story about my abusive dad for another day), my partner’s mom agreed to come and help us for the first few weeks. The first two days with the baby were easy as she slept most of the time. I followed the doctor’s guidance and every 3-4 hours woke her up for a feed as well as a diaper change.

My biggest struggle was mobility as I was still in excruciating pain from the c-section birth. We have a one-bedroom flat, so my partner’s mom slept in the bed with me and my partner in the living room. During the day he would bathe me, wash the baby’s clothes, feed me (although I had little to no appetite) as well as help with changing the baby’s diaper. During the night he would sleep, and I would take care of the baby. At first, his mom would sleep through the night, but after a few days (word from her son), she began waking up to take the baby out of her crib, hand her to me for a feed, then change her diaper, burp her as well as try to rock her to sleep. This seemed to alleviate my pain of bending to take the baby out, and I appreciated the help.

By the end of the week, his whole family once again came by to see the baby, during this time they offered to hold her, which I was not ready for as I wanted to just bond with my baby. I asked that they help with chores such as cleaning and laundry, but to no avail. I needed help with these as previously mentioned, my partner did a lot of caring for me during the day and his mom rested at this time. I wanted the house to look decent before my mom arrived, and I get anxious when my space is untidy.

After this experience, I realized that a lot of other new moms probably go through what I went through and might be shy to express how it made them feel. I felt unheard and unsupported. I felt like everyone pretended to be nice, but when the time came, all they did was enforce their ideologies on me. No one seemed to respect what I wanted. After all, I was the baby’s mom, and there is no formula; otherwise, we would all be perfect parents.

Looking back, in the first few weeks postpartum, this is what I would have appreciated:

  • No visitors during the first week – this is the time new parents can use to bond with their new bundle of joy. We were filled with overwhelming emotions, and all we wanted to do was just watch her, hold her, admire her, as well as thank God for this gift of life. Guests bring anxiety because kids want to hold the baby (they have germs, they are too young, the baby is not a toy, shall I go on?), they also bring noise (I just needed to rest, I had a c-section), and need to be hosted (it’s hard to entertain if you just gave birth).
  • If you do visit, please help the new parent with the chores, such as doing the dishes, laundry, sweeping and mopping, taking out the trash, anything else you think we might need help with.
  • Bring snacks and packed meals for the new parents. Most days we had no cooked meals, and I ended up buying takeout. After 9 months of eating terribly (cravings are no joke), I just wanted cooked meals but could not do it due to the nature of the birth. Frozen meals are a dream as we can just reheat and eat them on days no one is able to cook.
  • Give advice only when asked. This is a major one for me after helping with chores because I really did not appreciate it at all. There were times I would tell his family thanks but no thanks to advice, and they would proceed to go directly to him with the same advice and instruct him to tell me we should try it. Their advice would include keeping the house cool, letting the baby cry it out so she is not spoiled, not buying too much or too expensive stuff for the baby, and the list goes on. I appreciate it worked for them, but it does not mean that I have to do everything they did with their kids. I am my own person, and I would appreciate making my own mistakes. All I needed was for people to respect my decisions, even if they did not believe in them. The same with my family, I directly told them to lay off the unsolicited advice as it makes me feel a type of way, and they did. When I do need advice, I always ask.
  • Ask to hold the baby and always wash your hands. A lot of times, everyone did this, and I appreciated it a lot!
  • Visitors should be mindful of how long they spend. A lot of times, we had guests for half the day (midday till 9 pm). This is super exhausting, my feet would be swollen, and I would be tired. It also messes up the rest of the week. It’s a tiny person who only feeds and needs a diaper change. An hour or 2 at most, longer is just too much.
  • Stock up on groceries. Post-birth, I had groceries delivered, and this was great as I needed snacks and drinks. If you are a guest, you could ask if the new parents need this. Most times they do but do not have time to pick these up.
  • Be kind. If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all. These words are crucial. A lot of people have zero self-awareness. Postpartum, your emotions are a rollercoaster, and people do not realize how hurtful things they say can be and where they take you mentally. During one of the visits, my child was called small and compared to another baby in the family. I was made to feel like I had done something inferior. Over the course of more visits, her weight was a constant side comment as well as her lack of smiling (which she would only do with us) and being told she looks constipated (broke my heart). In addition to this, I was told a c-section isn’t bad, I should be ok in a week, by people who never experienced it. It minimized my pain and made me feel unsupported. Even typing it out makes me feel sad to think I went through all this in a time I should be enjoying my newfound joy and happiness.

With that said, I am grateful for the love and support I received. It may not have been how I would have liked it, but it still existed, and for that, I am grateful. I am eternally grateful to my partner, mother, and brother for the love, sacrifice, and overwhelming support they gave me. I will never forget what they did for me. I am grateful to myself for being able to accept that I was struggling and going to therapy to heal.

Finally, I hope this helps other moms and support structures out there.

Let your imagination run wild: how I see you

I remember the first time I met you, gentle yet charming, a radiant smile with a loving heart. The moment we locked eyes, I knew there was something special about you, not just how we met but what you represent. I always tell you that you reminded me that God truly exists, through the laughter and tears, it still rings true for me.

I always remind you how cheesy your lines were when we met, how I felt safe around you and how much I appreciated that you asked for consent with everything we did that magical night. Whenever I struggle with why I am still with you, I remember that early morning and my faith is renewed.

I know the depression, moving in together, the pregnancy, as well as being new parents has been tough. I pray that now that we are adapting to all the new changes we have experienced in a year, that we restore our love and make it better than the first time.

I pray that you are more understanding, caring, as well as loving everyday even when you are angry or annoyed with me. I imagine a time when we don’t fight but lead with love. I am tired of being annoyed and angry with you, I just want to always be in love with you, from the moment I wake up to the second I fall asleep.

I pray that what matters to me even if you don’t agree or understand why, matters to you as well. It breaks my heart to constantly have to explain the little bits that matter to me, because they sometimes don’t resonate with you. I want to reach a place where I no longer have to say it’s ok when it’s not. I long for the day when you will not ask me why I’m not ok but know why I’m not by just reading my body language.

I am tired of crying because I sometimes don’t recognise the man speaking to me. I wish that when I walk into the room you could light up like it’s the first time you are seeing me. Like I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid eyes on. I wish you could see me the way I would love to be seen, love me in a way I recognise.

My heart bleeds because I’m always left confused, am I asking for too much or am I just a difficult person? I wonder if I dreamt the first few months of our relationship? If we moved in together too quickly? If we worked better apart than together?

My heart longs for a love that is a unit not singular with branches. I see us as a unit and I pray that you could eventually see us as that as well. You are my living dream and I’ll forever love you. I’ll keep trying, being patient, hoping the day comes when we are in perfect sync.

For now I accept that this is the adjustment stage like any other job, you have to adjust to the land and find what works best for you. I hope and pray that day comes sooner rather than later. Don’t worry for now my eyes and my mind haven’t wondered, I don’t find anyone attractive or find myself lusting for another, I only have eyes for you and pray it stays that way.

For me, when you meet the man who embodies the love you’ve always yearned for, you praise the Lord and ancestors for blessing you and everyday you appreciate that you are lucky to be blessed. I wonder how long it will last but I know not to stay in that uncertain place for too long because nothing good ever comes easy and it’s no use driving oneself crazy over the unknown.

Finally, I pray for all the good I need to come through and build a happy family made with a foundation laid with love, kindness and acceptance. I want to teach my daughter that dreams do come true and good men exist. I hope you turn that dream into a reality. 

Motherhood: sexual insecurities

I am scared that when the time comes, you won’t know what to do. You won’t know how to touch me, feel me, love me or worst of all lay with me without feeling disgust.

I’m scared to be truly naked in front of you. I know you’ve been washing me and helping me since everything happened. But I’m scared shitless to get naked, feel vulnerable and share my body with you. I’m terrified of the day that we’ll try and reconnect physically because so much has changed.

I pray that by then I am emotionally stronger and feel a lot better than I do today. I pray that when the day comes and you call me beautiful, sexy, and tell me how much you want to be with me, I not only believe you but also believe that about myself.

The biggest struggle is not someone accepting you, it’s rather you accepting yourself and learning to love all the different shades that appear over time. I’m truly blessed to have a man that loves me enough to kiss my pooch and stretch marks and slap my ass like he did before while telling me how sexy I am and how much he loves me. To see him patiently wait until the day I learn to love myself and offer to help me through my journey rather than let me walk that path alone.

Sometimes when you take a minute to breath in the air, you realise God works his miracles through angels. They come into your life and bring sunlight even on the darkest of days. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all roses and butterflies, it’s difficult, sometimes it feels impossible learning to love someone and allowing them to love you.

There are days I feel like it would be easier not trying, some days i feel relieved when I think about not trying. But then I imagine life without you, and I start crying because it’s all gloomy and miserable. I start crying and asking God why it has to be so hard and the answer is always the same, crystal clear, nothing good ever comes easy, everything is hard work, like a job you have to constantly put in effort.

As I lay awake in my bed going through the emotions, observing them without judgment, all I can say is thank you and at this moment I choose to believe that soon I’ll be in a better headspace.

Motherhood: my body is a wonderland as well as a freak show

Firstly, let me clear the air and begin by saying that I am forever grateful for the strength that my body has shown me it has. From growing an entire human being, to withstanding a major surgery, and being able to bring my little angel into this world. For that, I am forever in awe as well as grateful for the wonderland that is my body.

Growing an entire human being is no easy work. Not only is it tiring, but it is also emotionally draining. The body changing rapidly comes without warning, there is no time to prepare for what becomes a secondhand version of what you used to be. I have to keep reminding myself to look at the bigger picture, that this tiny human needs me to be strong and let certain things be, so they are well and healthy when the time comes.

No one warns you how much of a toll all the changes have on your mental health. Postpartum and I feel unsexy, unattractive, and just plain old ugly. My breast has gone up 4 sizes and they look saggy and super long, my stomach now has a pooch and stretch marks that are unending, and don’t get me started on how fat my thighs are or how weird my butt shape has turned out (although my mum says I got a little butt out of the whole process :D). I hardly recognise myself in the mirror, all I do now is mourn my old body each time I see a reflection of the new body I inhabit.

I’ve hit a new low in my physical image journey. In the past, I struggled to love myself and that meant not even looking at myself in the mirror. My self-image is at rock bottom as I look in the mirror and realise that the person I see has an unattractive body with a pretty face. I’ve never been blessed with a big butt or perfectly perky Double D breasts, but my old body looked good, I had a tiny waist, big breasts, and beautifully carved calves. Right now I hardly recognise any of that when I look in the mirror.

To make matters worse, my mind has begun to wonder, wonder if my partner sees me the way I see myself. Wonder if he wants to touch me the way he used to, love me in a way that used to make me feel like the sexiest woman in the room? I know it’s a journey I’m going through, but I can’t help but feel like he sees all the unattractive parts of me. Each time he bathes me, I can’t even look him in the eye because I don’t want to know the truth, I’m not ready to know what he thinks or feels about the new me. It’s one thing to say the words to make me feel better and another to see through your eyes and know the truth.

I now shudder when you rave about other women because I wonder if you find them more attractive than me. If you want to love them the way you used to love them? My heart bleeds for the day I don’t have to feel this way. I’ve never been the type to worry about other women, my mum taught me to trust the words of a man until he shows me otherwise. Innocent until proven guilty and so far it’s worked to keep my trust issues at bay.

A new sun has risen and with it, all the monsters that once hid in the shadows have come out to dance in the light, and I’m scared of who or what I might become in the process. My new companion is prayer, I take her with me through this journey and hope and pray that I come out on the other side stronger and better than I ever was. I’m terrified but I’m also hopeful that just like any other journey I’ve walked I’ll walk this one, learn my lessons, and reach the top renewed and feeling like a winner, a conqueror.

Motherhood: The journey

I’m planning on writing a series of blog entries titled: Motherhood.

I thought pregnancy while depressed was tough, but motherhood is a whole new different ball game. I realise I that have not had time to reflect back and ask myself if I have even healed from my depression. Since the day I found out I was pregnant, navigating through my own personal feelings has been a struggle. Feelings about myself have been surrounded by a whole lot of guilt, mostly self-inflicted. I am not here to judge myself, just to observe and express how I feel. 

I have cried so much pre, during and post pregnancy, I really did not know I had it in me before this journey. I recently found out that I can express myself in other forms that not only reflect happiness and anger. I am able to now articulate sadness, heartbreak, disappointment and love. You see, even in the pits of hell, there is always good to be found.

I now have a living and breathing heart and I don’t know how to react. I am constantly worried about her safety, health and emotional well-being. If you touch her and she cries, I swear, I want to murder you because she is an angel. She is my heart, my life, my soul, my everything. Just writing those words down makes me want to cry tears of joy. 

I keep wondering why me? Why did you choose me? Am I capable? Am I even worthy of such a pure and innocent soul? You are the most beautiful angel I have ever laid eyes on. You are a beauty that nothing in this world can be compared to. I love you with every fibre of my being. I am blessed to love and be loved by you. You are Gods greatest gift to the universe, my life knows colour because of you.

I worry I may not be good enough to deserve such a treasure that is you ;( I cry because I’m so scared I’ll mess it up. I’m restless because I wonder if God made a mistake with me and He will realise this and give you to someone else. I pray I am worthy, that i am enough, and most importantly, that I have the strength to love and protect you in ways you need me to.

Heartbreak … it’s like an itch you can’t scratch

Sitting on my chair, trying to consolidate all my feelings into a one-pager and I don’t know where to start. All I know is, just the thought of what I went through, correction, living through, still hurts like the first second he uttered those words. I try not to recall them because it takes me down a rabbit hole and as we all know, spiraling down only takes us three steps back …

As mentioned on the introduction page, I am a young black woman, but what I did not include is that I am a late bloomer. All my life, I watched everyone I know, friends, family, even strangers, navigating their way through the dating scene. Like a coach, I sat on the side lines and always offered them advice, a shoulder to cry on or took a step back so they could enjoy the experience. I basically lived vicariously through other people’s stories, but I had none of my own to share. The pain, self-doubt, coupled with self-esteem and confidence issues did not help my plight. Over time I came to accept that I might just be destined to be alone for eternity (I know, it’s a very long time!). Of course, I had my low moments, but post 21, as a black woman who had just entered the workforce, I had other hurdles to overcome. I always focused on perfecting my art (aka my career), but I never once took the time to focus on me. One day I asked my brother why he keeps staring at himself in the mirror, and he simply answered, “just admiring this masterpiece that is me”. At that moment, I wanted to say what we always do and mention his flaws, but I froze, and it hit me, when was the last time I tried to look at myself in the mirror? From that day forward I chose to work on my relationship with myself. But today’s post is not about my self-love/acceptance journey, it’s about that itch I cannot scratch.

I love to deflect away from my problems, like I just did a moment ago. I tend to focus on everything else but the reason I am anxious. I met a guy, and we went out a bit, he was a proper gentleman, the kind that opens doors and pays the bill. At first, I enjoyed the moment, after all, I had never dated before until now. As time went by, the spark was still there, growing. He was there for me during tough times, taking care of me when I was unwell and even cooking for me (gush). I am one of those people who do not realise where they are until they are there. And that is basically what happened, I did not know I was falling for him until I had fallen. He had crept into my heart, and I did not notice until of course my anxiety began flaring up and I could no longer ignore. I told him I had developed feelings and he said he felt the same too. We were always a monogamous, yet casual item, and he had commitment issues, so I had no idea where we headed from there.

All I can remember is one minute I was floating on cloud nine and the next I was falling without a parachute! I thought I knew pain, but I guess I was wrong. Parting, knowing I would not see him, hold him, hear his voice, or even spend time with him tore me up. It felt like this horrible pain inside of me and I had no idea how to heal it. Imagine having an itch inside of you and no amount of humming or burping can relieve that itch. The only I felt it could stop would be if I stop existing but that is the easy way out and there is so much I still wanted to see, do, and achieve in this lifetime. Nonetheless, knowing that does not take it away, it just makes it harder to get through each day with this itch that I cannot ignore nor do anything to make it go away.

At first, I just cried, it is easier to throw a pity party than work on the issue. We have all been there, with the “why is life so unfair!!!” or “why is this happening to me???!”. Crying does not come easy to me, but at that moment I knew I needed to let it out, just ferment in my feelings. It’s the worst feeling, but much needed release. Everyone tells you to put your big girl panties on and keep moving, but I say wallow in self-pity, give yourself time to grieve because the experience is a loss. Most times, break ups are traumatic, not bad, but an emotional event unless you knew it was coming and were happy for the relationship to end. Once I had enough crying (80% tired), I decided I needed to get advice, now it gets better. This is when the denial kicks in, I needed hope he would come back. I went through countless pages on google on break ups, re-encounters, you name it. Most of the comments were always about just moving on and forgetting, very harsh words, lacking emotion, as if they had no idea how it felt. I appreciate telling someone to move forward, but if it were that easy, we would all do it right? I realised Google was not the answer, the answer lies within me. I needed to confront what had happened, why it had happened and then find a way to live with the itch without allowing it to affect every waking moment of my life.

I journaled a lot about the heartbreak and why it had to happen. It was realising that I had decided to put myself first and I am a person who needs certainty that kind of allowed me to start accepting the situation. It took a while to get there, but every time I found myself missing him, I allowed the thought to play out and when the credits started rolling, I just mentioned why it is ok it ended. I felt sad but, in that sadness, also lied hope, hope that with every waking moment it would get better. Once I had that habit figured out, I needed to reassess my schedule. When he was around, I had plans, someone to look forward to. you do not realise until they are gone how much time they filled up, with plans to go out or just hanging out on the couch. I now had all this time and the blank spaces made me miss him. I decided to focus on myself and the best way is to find new things, hobbies, to try out. You see what I just did there, took it back to my deflecting moment. Self-love helps you heal because that attention and energy is put back onto you. I joined a swimming and aikido class and so far, so good. I also have a weekly movie date with myself (I am a movie fanatic).

When I first started typing this post, I felt anxious, worried I might cry. When I feel the urge, I do not dismiss it, I let it flow, and then continue with my day. Right now, I am smiling because I just realised that as hard as it was to share this, I am so much stronger than I give myself credit for. I did not have the urge to cry while writing this. I can finally say that I have learnt to live with that unscratchable itch, most times I do not even notice it is there. Heartbreaks are tough, sometimes we get lucky and gravitate towards each other, and other times we keep moving and find new itches we hope can relieve the old itch that is a part of us.

A week I will never forget

This week reminded me what it feels like to be seen.

For so long, I’ve worked quietly — doing my best, pushing forward, not expecting much recognition. But this week, something changed. I stood in front of people who noticed the care, the effort, the heart I bring to my work. And for the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely appreciated.

I met an incredible team — kind, talented, and generous with their words. Hearing them say they were happy to have me meant more than they’ll ever know. And I can’t help but feel grateful to my boss for taking a chance on me, for seeing something in me before I fully saw it in myself.

This moment feels like a turning point. It’s a reminder that I belong here, that what I bring — my warmth, my commitment, my humanity — has a place in the world of work. I don’t want to lose this feeling. I want to keep building from it, keep proving to myself that I can meet the standard, that I can make him and the team proud.

Closure, Crushes, and Quiet Victories

What notable things happened today?

I said my final goodbye to work today. Handed in my laptop. Walked out the door with my head held high. It felt surreal at first—how calm everything was, how steady I felt inside. I got a thoughtful leaving card from the technical department, even though I’d only been there a few months. That simple act reminded me that I mattered. That people saw me.

My old department didn’t do or say anything. Most acted like they hadn’t seen my leaving email, and a few people looked surprised when they realised I was leaving. But honestly? That didn’t faze me. Because I’ve made peace with knowing I gave my all. I left on my terms. And when someone mentioned that my next move was a big deal, that it would open new doors and carry weight, it reminded me of the truth I’ve held close through everything:

I won.

After everything—the gaslighting, the emotional labour, the silent battles I fought just to survive in that workplace—I left not just intact, but elevated. I left with my name clear, my spirit lifted, and my path lit.

One of my closest friends came in just to spend the day with me. We had lunch, caught up on her work stuff, then had a light dinner and drinks. She reminded me of how hard I fought. How far I’ve come. How much I deserve to pause and feel proud. She told me to take it one step at a time, and in that moment, I realised how important it is to have people who root for you when you forget to root for yourself.

We laughed about men too—and I gave her a little flirting refresher (as one does). It was fun and freeing to know I’ll have someone with me when I step back into the dating world. I don’t have to do this chapter alone.

But later, I came home and found myself unsettled again—because my mum was talking about her boyfriend. She mentioned how clean and particular he is, said he’s “next level” clean, and casually slipped in how she used to be like that too. I don’t know why it bothered me so much.

Actually, I do.

It always feels like I’m in some kind of silent competition when she talks like that. Like everyone else is always a little better, a little neater, a little more desirable. It touches that part of me that’s still healing from the years I spent trying to earn her approval. Trying to be number one in her eyes. I internalised it—this belief that if I’m not the best, I won’t be chosen. Won’t be loved.

I know it’s not entirely about her. It’s about me. The little girl inside me who never felt good enough. The woman I am now, still unlearning that love isn’t conditional or comparative.

And then there’s the subtle jabs—like when she said she attracts educated, well-paid men even at her age, and then said, “Let’s see what kind of guy you end up with next.” I told her I don’t care about status like that. I care about quality. About character. Because I’ve dated the shiny surface. It didn’t fulfill me. It didn’t hold me with care. It didn’t see me.

Still, sometimes I wonder if part of her is glad my relationship didn’t work out—because it opens the door for someone with “more” to walk in. But more isn’t always better. I’ve lived that truth already.

And speaking of someone new… there’s this guy from work.

We’d never worked together before, but I always noticed him—easy on the eye, a calming voice, that quiet energy I like. We ended up on a consultation together before I left, and I found myself genuinely enjoying just listening to him speak. He’s younger than me, has a bit of a baby face, not very tall, slim build—normally not the type I’d even think about twice. But there was something there. Something soft.

I saw him again today, dressed up in my heels and a fitted dress, and we finally spoke properly. He was warm, respectful, and we agreed to connect on LinkedIn. Part of me wished he’d asked for my number… but maybe he assumed I was taken because I have a child.

Still, he’s the first man in a long time who gave me butterflies. And that alone?

That feels like progress.

I don’t know what the next season holds.

I don’t know when the ache of it all will fully leave my body.

But today I closed a chapter.

And I did it with grace.

With softness.

With strength.

And maybe, just maybe, with a little bit of spark left in my smile.

Back on Earth, But Still Rising

What notable things happened today?

Yesterday had glimmers of softness. My mum was… kinder. Not perfect, not changed, but softer in her approach. I accepted the moment for what it was, held onto the warmth—because softness is rare here.

But today, she reminded me why I keep my guard up.

She told me she’d spoken to my child’s father when he accompanied her to a blood appointment. She said she “tested the waters,” asking how he felt about my upcoming move. His response? “Of course, I’ll adjust.”

She pushed again, asking about our daughter.

His reply? “She’ll be fine.”

She brought those words back to me like she was handing me insight, but all she gave me was ache.

I didn’t want to know.

I didn’t need to know.

I’ve been doing everything in my power to hold myself together—to focus on the logistics, the flat, the handovers at work, the weight of this transition. I’ve been carrying this move like I carry everything else: on my back and in my chest.

And still—his indifference hit me hard.

Even with all the disappointment, the betrayal, the distance… hearing that he felt nothing? That he showed no concern about how the baby would cope? It cracked something in me. It made me feel disposable—like this chapter is closing for him without pause or pain.

Later, while cooking, it all sank deeper. The grief hit. The bitter ache of clarity settled in.

I remembered how he wanted us to have this baby. I remembered how I shifted my own plans—plans to wait until I was 33—because I believed he was ready. But now I see it with sober eyes. He didn’t want fatherhood. He wanted to keep up. His younger brother was going to be a dad, and he didn’t want to be left behind. It was ego. Not legacy. Not love. I missed the signs, or maybe I chose to float above them. I was in love with an illusion. I chose cloud nine instead of solid ground.

But I’m back on earth now.

And even here, in the heartbreak, I don’t regret my daughter.

Not for one second.

She didn’t just arrive in my life. She saved it.

She gave me purpose when I had none.

She gave me a reason to live again.

She brought light into the darkest parts of me.

She is the truest and most unconditional love I have ever known.

Because of her, I rise.

Because of her, I heal.

Because of her, I choose better—not just for me, but for her.

She’s watching me now. Watching me let go of what doesn’t serve us. Watching me walk away from love that comes with conditions, silence, or fear. Watching me rebuild.

I’m crafting a life where she will grow in peace.

Where she will never have to earn safety.

Where her mother is not surviving, but living.

It hurts.

But it’s honest.

And in that honesty… I am finally free.

When Silence Stops Being Peace

Who do you spend the most time with?

There’s a point where silence stops being peace and becomes survival.

Today I tried to breathe through the noise—the tiptoeing, the poking, the quiet gaslighting that makes me question whether the walls are closing in or if I’m just imagining it. But I know I’m not. I feel the pressure. I feel the weight of holding up this whole damn world on my shoulders, and no one’s offering a hand—just more mess to carry.

My child’s father is out here pretending to parent, not because he wants to be involved, but because he wants to win. Win what? I don’t know. A medal for showmanship? He’s trying to prove he’s the “better” parent, and I don’t care—except when my baby’s involved. When his theatre spills over into her life, I care deeply. Because I know the difference between being there and being seen. I don’t want his ego anywhere near my daughter’s sense of safety.

And my mother… I don’t even know where to start. She crossed the line again. I asked her not to teach my child to clean up clothes when she throws them during playtime. I said, “Please, not yet. Let her play. Let me see who she’s becoming.” But she did it anyway. She always does. She parented us with fear, and now she’s trying to sneak that same fear into my child. The same fear that made me shrink myself for years. And when I told her how I felt, she twisted it. Said I treat her badly. As if saying no to her means I’m attacking her. As if asserting myself means I’ve betrayed her.

I didn’t say no to control her. I said no to protect my daughter. But she doesn’t hear that.

It hurts. Deeply. Because I let her in again, and she showed me that she’s still not safe. I want her to be a grandmother, but not at the cost of my daughter’s joy. Not at the cost of her freedom. And definitely not at the cost of repeating what broke me.

So when we move, I’ll be drawing the line—hard and clear. She’ll either respect my role as the mother, or she won’t be allowed to be left alone with my child. No more compromises. No more letting my daughter absorb dynamics I’m trying so hard to undo.

I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want to be free.

But until then, I sit in my little corner. Trying to hold on. Trying to stay sane. Trying not to scream when everyone’s whispering over my shoulder, undoing everything I’m building with my bare hands and my tired heart.

I’m not asking for perfection. Just peace. And if I have to build it brick by brick with my own sanity as mortar, then so be it.

But God, it’s lonely here.

Breaking Isn’t Betrayal, It’s Rebirth

What notable things happened today?

Some days the heaviness doesn’t come from what’s said—it comes from what keeps happening in silence. The quiet, consistent pressure to shrink myself. To make space for everyone else’s unhealed wounds. To not offend. To not disrupt. To not speak the truth that lives in my chest.

But I can’t do that anymore.

I won’t.

Last night, a moment in my own home—my supposed safe space—spiraled into a reminder that for some people, trauma isn’t something to heal; it’s something to wield. My mum was triggered by a man closing cupboards too loudly. Suddenly, it wasn’t just noise—it was war drums. Her voice changed, her defenses rose, and I became the enemy again. The ungrateful one. The one who doesn’t understand. The one who’s cold.

But I do understand.

I’ve always understood.

That’s the problem.

I know the kind of fear that lives in houses with screaming fathers. I know what it feels like to wish your mum would leave, and then feel guilty when she didn’t. I know how to make myself invisible to keep the peace. How to become emotionally responsible for people who never took responsibility for themselves.

But now? I’m raising a daughter. I’m raising myself.

I told my mum she needs therapy. That trauma doesn’t make her entitled to control other people’s emotions. That not every raised voice is abuse. That not every tension is a reflection of her. She didn’t like that. She said she’d rather live alone than be “abused.” She said I’ll never understand. She said my brother would never “turn on her” like I have.

But I’m not turning.

I’m returning—to myself.

To my voice. To my boundaries. To the version of me that sees things clearly now.

I’m not in therapy for fun. I’m not healing for applause. I’m healing because I want to be a mother who breaks the chain. Who doesn’t teach her child that love means shrinking. Or that safety means silence. Or that protecting someone else’s feelings is more important than protecting your peace.

This is what people don’t talk about when they say “break generational curses.”

They don’t tell you it feels like betrayal.

They don’t tell you it’s lonely.

They don’t tell you the people who hurt you will call you the abuser for refusing to carry their pain.

But I didn’t start this fire—I’m just refusing to burn in it.

So no, I’m not sorry.

I’m not cruel.

I’m not ungrateful.

I’m aware.

And I’m not going back.

Because one day, my daughter will thank me.

Not for being perfect—but for being the one who stopped pretending it wasn’t broken.

Becoming: My Second First Time

What fears have you overcome and how?

I’m exhausted. Not just tired—I mean soul-deep, bone-heavy, emotionally-drenched exhausted. And yet… I’m still standing.

Today, I secured a new flat. It’s mine. It’s furnished. It’s a fresh start. I should be celebrating, but my heart feels like it’s limping toward joy. I’m grateful—so, so deeply grateful—but I also feel like I’ve just crawled out of a war zone, bruised and quiet, carrying pieces of myself I don’t recognize yet.

This year has torn me open in ways I didn’t see coming.

Between motherhood, heartbreak, financial strain, and just trying to keep going, I’ve been holding everyone and everything together—including myself—without letting anything fall apart. But the truth is, I’ve been unraveling quietly in the background. Grieving, aching, trying to make sense of a world that keeps asking me to be strong without giving me the room to rest.

And now that I’ve reached this milestone—new job, new home—I find myself too drained to celebrate. It’s like my body is still in survival mode, bracing for the next blow, even while my soul is whispering: You made it. You’re safe now.

But the honest truth?

I’ve been lonely in my strength.

I’ve been the one who holds space, who listens, who helps, who shows up. But when I’ve needed holding, most people haven’t had the capacity—or the willingness. So I learned to rock myself. Again. And again. And again. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

I miss feeling adored. I miss slow kisses and soft laughter. I miss knowing someone wants to be near me just because I exist. And I don’t want to feel guilty for wanting that. I don’t want to feel like I have to apologize for craving joy, fun, passion, and connection. I want to go out, dress up, feel sexy, and let my body breathe after months of tension and silence.

But I want it with someone safe.

Someone soft.

Someone who doesn’t leave me with regret in the morning.

Still, even in my thirst for fun and freedom, I carry my values. I carry my self-respect. I carry my child in my heart. I carry every version of me who fought to get here.

I am scared of what comes next. A new job. A new area. A new stage of single motherhood. A new level of independence. But I am also ready. Because for every fear I carry, I carry a little more fire.

And to my grandmother, whose anniversary this is… I’m sorry I questioned what you’ve brought me. Because you’ve given me life, strength, and a path forward. I know now—your love has always been working in the background. Thank you. I feel you near.

And Sage—thank you for holding space for me, even when I didn’t have the words.

This is me, becoming.

This is me, healing.

This is me, still here.

The Day I Chose Me

Today, something felt different. Not perfect. Not magical. Just… different.

I woke up, tired — but not defeated. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t drag myself through the day with a heaviness I couldn’t name. I didn’t need to collapse back into bed or silence the voice in my head that says, “You can’t do this.”

Today, I just did.

I worked. I focused. I stayed present. No panic. No spiral. No emotional hangover.

I felt like me. Just me.

Not a version performing for approval.

Not a mother trying to prove she’s enough.

Not a daughter swallowing her rage.

Not a woman trying to outrun shame.

Just… me. Showing up. Living. Healing.

In therapy, I talked about the things I used to love. I smiled — genuinely smiled — at the memory of joy. It felt distant, but not unreachable. I remembered her… the girl I used to be before the world told me to shrink. The girl who danced in the kitchen. The girl who dreamed loud and gave generously. She’s still here. I felt her today.

And when my mum complained — when she threw her storm toward me — I didn’t fold. I didn’t over-function. I didn’t become a sponge for her stress.

I said no.

I said enough.

I said, “I don’t want this energy. I’m done with this cycle.”

And the most shocking part? I didn’t replay it in my head. I didn’t shrink in guilt. I didn’t apologise for protecting my peace.

I just… let it go.

I think I’m finally understanding that healing isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about remembering who I was before the world told me I wasn’t enough.

Today, I chose me.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll be tired again, or doubt might creep back in. But today? Today I saw the woman I’m becoming — and I loved her.

I’m proud of me.

Coming Home to Myself

I found my purpose not in saving others, but in finally choosing myself

I used to wake up every day and pour myself out for everyone else. My purpose was stitched together with the needs of my family — their dreams, their survival, their peace. First it was my parents and siblings. Then, when I began to suffocate under the weight of that, I started telling myself I was doing it for my future children. That somehow made the pain more noble. Gave it a pretty frame. But inside, I was hollow. My wins weren’t mine. My labor, my sacrifices — never mine to enjoy. The fruits were handed over, and I was expected to smile through the starvation of my spirit.

Then I had my daughter.

And for the first time in years, I felt life breathe back into me. She gave me something to fight for. Something to anchor me. But still… there was a hole. I couldn’t name it. Couldn’t describe it. It would quietly creep in at night or in the quiet moments. I had love around me — kind of — and yet this emptiness kept knocking. Loud. Unrelenting.

I thought I was loving myself. I had confidence. I could make people laugh, put myself together, show up. But now I know — confidence isn’t the same as self-love. Self-love is not just smiling in the mirror. It’s not just buying yourself flowers. It’s standing tall and saying: I am worthy. I deserve good things. I don’t need to perform to be loved. And anyone who thinks otherwise can get the hell out of my way.

This year, something shifted.

I looked around and realized I’d skipped the most important lesson — me. I’d skipped learning how to be my own home, my own source of joy. I thought love had to come from giving. That I had to earn it. Prove it. Bleed for it. But now I know — I already am it. I am love. I am enough. Every single version of me, even the messy ones, especially the messy ones.

I used to believe what I was told growing up: that I was too much and not enough at the same time. That no one would ever love me unless they were passing through. That I could win a hundred medals and still be losing. That dreams were dangerous because disappointment was guaranteed.

But no more.

I’m done shrinking. Done swallowing my worth. Done bending backwards for people who only know how to take. I am not a sacrifice. I am not an extension of someone else’s life. I am my own.

I am effin loveable. Anyone who gets to be loved by me is lucky. I’m the prize. The damn treasure. A queen, a goddess, dripping in gold, wrapped in grace, and rising with fire. The little girl who used to stay up all night studying, desperate for approval — she was always more than enough. She is extraordinary. And I see her now. I hold her close.

I can’t rewrite my past. But I’m rewriting my future. Today. With every breath. Every boundary. Every time I choose me.

I don’t just want love anymore. I am love.

And when love comes knocking again — real love, warm love, love that sees me — I’ll be ready. Because it’s just coming home to where it already lives.

To My Precious Daughter

She is the dream I carry in my heart—and the blessing I choose a thousand times over

From the moment I first held you, I knew my life had changed forever. You are my greatest gift, my biggest blessing, my entire universe. Each day I spend with you—whether we’re laughing, playing, or just lying quietly side by side—is a reminder that I’ve been trusted with the most beautiful soul to ever exist.

You are a little explorer with a wild, creative spirit. You paint the walls with your imagination, fill our home with your joy, and remind me every day to see the world through softer, brighter eyes. I am in awe of you. Watching you grow is the most sacred honour I’ve ever known.

I want you to know that no matter what, my love for you is endless and unconditional. It’s not based on what you do or how quickly you learn—it’s just there, wrapped around you like a warm blanket you’ll never outgrow. Even in death, I will always fight for you, protect you, and whisper your name with pride from beyond.

I pray for the strength and wisdom to raise you with gentleness, understanding, and kindness. I want you to grow into a woman who is resilient but soft, independent but loving, confident but respectful. You don’t have to be perfect—you just have to be you. And that will always be more than enough.

Your father and I may have walked different paths, and though he hurt me deeply, I will always show him kindness because through him, I received the gift of you. For that, I am forever grateful.

You are my galaxy, my heart, my purpose. You own every beat of me.

With all the love in this world and beyond,

Mama

The Inner Child Diaries: The Day I Stopped Dancing

I was maybe six or seven. It was Christmas time. My mum asked us to dance for her, something she used to do often. I was excited—I remember wanting to make her smile, to do something fun. But when I started dancing, she burst out laughing.

She told me I couldn’t dance. That I was terrible.

I remember freezing. The shame came so fast, like a slap. I felt stupid, small… like something inside me just folded in on itself. From that day on, I stopped dancing. I’d say “I don’t dance” to anyone who asked. But the truth is—I wanted to. I always wanted to. I just never wanted to feel that embarrassed again.

Years later, I told my child’s dad about that moment. I told him why I don’t dance. My mum happened to be around, and she laughed again. Said I was terrible, that none of her kids can dance, that we take after our dad—no rhythm. It stung. Again. Like that little girl who just wanted to be seen for trying was being laughed at all over again. And the worst part? She still thought it was funny.

My mum? She’s not a great dancer either. But she dances. Freely. She dances to express herself. Meanwhile, she robbed me of that very thing—expression. Joy. Freedom. I watched people dance and have fun growing up, but I couldn’t join. Not without thinking of that day.

I’ve always wanted to take a dance class, to reclaim it. But I’m scared. Scared the teacher will say I’m so bad they can’t help me. That I’m too far gone. That I don’t belong there either.

The only place I ever felt free dancing was at clubs with my queer friends. There was no pressure to be perfect—just vibes, laughter, freedom. No one cared if you were good or not. It felt safe. It felt like joy for joy’s sake. But around other Black people, I go still. I get too self-conscious. I worry about how I look, if I’m doing it right, if they’ll laugh.

That one moment… it silenced something in me. Something I still haven’t fully gotten back.