What Motherhood Has Taught Me

There’s no other way to explain how I just know things.

Like how silence can mean “I’m okay” or “I’m about to explode.” Like how I can hear my baby’s breathing shift in the next room while I’m mid-dream.

 Like how I can tell he’s growing again just by the way he rests heavier in my arms.

It taught me time doesn’t run in a straight line anymore. One minute I’m staring at his eyelashes for what feels like an entire season. The next, he’s outgrowing clothes I swore still smelled like the hospital. Days blur. But the moments?

They hit like flashbulbs.

I’ve learned that softness can be the strongest thing in the room. That speaking gently to a screaming child while your nerves are fried is an act of strength no one claps for. That joy isn’t always loud—it’s in the giggles during diaper changes, the sleepy babble at 5 a.m., the way his whole face lights up when I walk in the room.

Before motherhood, I thought I needed to control things to feel safe. 

Now I know the magic is in surrender. Letting go of the plan. Letting the moment be the moment, even if it’s messy or loud or nothing like what I imagined. Especially then.

Nobody told me how funny it would be. 

That my baby’s little fake cough would feel like stand-up comedy. That I’d find myself making up entire songs about poop. That I’d cry laughing in a room full of burp cloths and feel more alive than I ever did out at brunch.

Motherhood taught me I was built for this in ways I didn’t know. That my body, my mind, my instincts—they’ve been waiting for this role. And they show up, even on the days I feel like I don’t.

I’m not perfect. I’m not always patient.

But I am present. And in this world? That’s everything.