motherhood – Adulting & Motherhood

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.

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.

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

Breaking the Silence: A Journey of Healing and Strength

Three years ago, I met the man of my dreams—or so I thought. He seemed kind, thoughtful, and everything I could ever want in a partner. For a while, I believed in the idea of us, in the possibility of building a life together. But even then, there was this quiet voice in the back of my mind telling me that love alone wouldn’t be enough. I wanted a child. I really did. But the reality of my situation, the weight of my debts, made me wonder how I could make it all work.

Then I found out I was pregnant. Despite the financial challenges, there was a rush of excitement. I wanted to be a mother, and the news filled me with a sense of purpose, even though the world felt heavy. I wasn’t prepared in the way society might expect, but in that moment, something shifted inside me. My daughter gave me purpose. She gave me life, a reason to keep fighting. I felt strength and courage I didn’t even know I had, and suddenly, I was standing on my own two feet, ready to bring this beautiful soul into the world.

Before I got pregnant, I had already been struggling with depression. I had taken time off work, trying to find some sense of balance, some way out of the darkness. But when I found out I was pregnant, I also found a new reason to fight. It wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about living for someone else, someone who needed me more than anyone ever had.

The early days of pregnancy were filled with uncertainty. Despite the love I felt for my unborn child, I couldn’t shake the weight of my debts and the fear of what the future might hold. But I pushed through. I had to. I started to feel something deep inside me—a shift, a quiet confidence that I would find a way to make this work. My daughter was going to be my everything.

When she was born, the reality of motherhood settled in. There were sleepless nights, moments of doubt, but also immeasurable joy. I had the baby I’d longed for, but things weren’t as simple as I’d imagined. His family, ever present, began pushing their own expectations on how we should raise our daughter. I wasn’t ready to bend, but he didn’t step in. He didn’t defend us. And the tension between his family’s demands and my desire to parent the way I thought best created a constant strain.

As the weeks turned into months, it became more apparent that his inability to set boundaries with his family was taking a toll. I felt alone in the battle. Alone in my desire to protect my child and create the family I envisioned. Every argument, every disagreement seemed to revolve around them. I couldn’t understand how the man I loved and trusted could prioritize their needs over mine, over the family we were trying to build. It hurt. Deeply.

There were moments when I thought I could walk away, when I felt like I was losing myself. I was exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. I took time off, went home for a month, hoping to find some clarity. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’d return to a different situation. But when I came back, things hadn’t changed. The cracks were still there, and I was still hurting.

The turning point came with the new year. I was in a deep low again, my depression creeping back into my life. I took time off work, hoping for some support, for him to step up. But instead, he pulled further away. He lived his life, as if nothing was wrong. When I confronted him about it, the gaslighting began. He made me doubt myself, made me believe I was asking for too much.

Then, I found out the truth. The man I had loved, the father of my child, was cheating. The pain of it hit me like a wave, pulling the ground from beneath me. I told my family. I told my friends. But I didn’t confront him—not yet. I had to make a plan. I had to leave, but I wasn’t ready to walk away just yet. Not with the debts and financial strain weighing me down.

The more I watched him, the more I saw the lies, the deceit. I checked his phone and confirmed what I already feared—he was still seeing her. They had planned a trip together, and there he was, complaining about having to care for our baby. It wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt; it was the way he showed no respect for our daughter, for me. He let her cry, when we had both agreed we wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t just infidelity—it was cruelty, selfishness, and disregard for the family we’d created.

I was done. I knew in my heart that I couldn’t keep going like this. No matter what happened, I wasn’t going back to him. Even if the world ended, I wouldn’t go back to a man who had betrayed me, who had hurt me and our child. I was focused on what was next, on building a better future for us. I started to take it day by day, pushing forward for the sake of my daughter, for the sake of my healing.

I’m still healing. The sadness comes in waves, and some days it feels like the weight of it all is too much. But there’s also this strength I didn’t know I had—this fierce love for my daughter that keeps me moving. I’m focused on my future. I’m focused on what’s next. I’m working toward financial freedom, searching for a role that will give me the stability I need. And through all the hurt, through all the pain, I know that I’m stronger than I ever thought I was. I’m fighting for us. I’m fighting for me.

When Protecting Your Peace Means Letting Go of Old Patterns

Today broke something open inside me.

Not in a loud, messy way — but in the quiet, aching way that tells you something has shifted for good.

For a while now, I’ve been feeling the edges of it:

Small things, piling up like tiny stones pressing on my chest.

The way my home doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

The way decisions about my child are made without me, around me, over me.

The way “help” starts to feel more like control.

The way the atmosphere feels heavy — like I have to apologize for existing in my own life.

At first, I brushed it off.

I told myself I was overreacting, that I should be grateful.

That having help is better than doing it alone.

But somewhere deep inside, a voice kept whispering: Something isn’t right.

Today it became impossible to ignore.

Today I realized — the help came with a price.

And the price was my peace, my voice, my right to be the mother I am choosing to be.

It hit me how much of my upbringing is being replayed right here, in front of my eyes.

How fear was used to mold us.

How tidiness wasn’t about pride, but about punishment.

How respect was demanded, not earned.

How joy was rationed and wins were never simply celebrated — they were dissected, compared, measured, used to fuel someone else’s idea of “how things should be.”

And now, it’s happening again — but this time, it’s aimed at my child.

At the little girl I carried, birthed, nursed.

The little girl I promised would know a different kind of love.

The kind that sees her.

The kind that lifts her up without crushing her spirit.

I’m not crazy.

I’m not ungrateful.

I’m not overreacting.

I’m waking up.

And today, I decided: I will protect my peace and my daughter’s peace at all costs.

Even if it means making other people uncomfortable.

Even if it means being seen as the villain in someone else’s story.

Even if it means letting go of the illusion of closeness with someone I desperately wanted connection with.

Even if it means doing it alone for a while.

Because my daughter deserves a home built on love, not fear.

And I deserve a life where my voice matters — not just when it’s convenient for others.

I’m scared.

I’m tired.

But more than anything, I’m sure.

This cycle ends with me.

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.

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.