While I began writing this, I’ve already been to my daughter's room (which doubles as mine, as we’re co-sleeping) three times.

She’s unwell because she picked up a virus from daycare. When she calls, it's never a scream; she knows a soft sound is enough for me to come.

When she calls, it's never a scream; she knows a soft sound is enough for me to come.

Opening the door, I find her lying on her back, her large, dark eyes meeting mine. 'Where's your pacifier?' I ask, passing it to her. 'And Beertje?' Her stuffed animal— inseparable since she was 8 months old, doubling as her nighttime pillow. 'You're safe,' I reassure her, 'mama's here.' Before I settle, she's already turned towards me, feet seeking warmth against my body, falling right back asleep. In the quiet of night, her tiny hands search for my face, grasping momentarily to confirm my presence. Often, we end up hug-sleeping, with my arms around her as she nestles into my chest or close to my face.

'You're safe,' I reassure her, 'mama's here.'

I love everything about motherhood. I have never been happier, nor have I felt more present in life. But these past one and a half years have also broken me. It's a paradox, these very confusing times. I’ve never felt more exhausted, more touched out. For me, the biggest misconception about postpartum recovery is that it’s linear. This might be an unpopular opinion, but the newborn phase was the easiest for me. Even when I was in pain due to my episiotomy and severe back issues from the third trimester, I could hardly feel it because of the adrenaline coursing through me. On top of that, I was high on oxytocin, overflowing with love. Aside from cramping, which broke my heart, seeing a teeny tiny baby in so much pain crushed my soul, this was a very peaceful phase. All a newborn needs is milk, to be held, and sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. And after a rough night, I could take it slow and nap with her. Plus, I still had years of sleep reserves that I could use up.

Four months in, I first admitted to myself that things were getting hard.

Four months in, I first admitted to myself that things were getting hard. No longer a newborn, insert sleep regressions, teething. At six months, separation anxiety kicked in, and new skills like rolling and crawling meant that, with or without enough sleep, I had to be alert every second of the day. And with every month of breastfeeding, despite how beautiful and grateful I am to have been able to do this, I felt my body becoming weaker because of postpartum depletion, causing anxiety, low energy levels, self-doubt, and brain fog. On top of that, I was going through an identity crisis. Who am I now that I am still me but also forever changed? Meanwhile, check-ins from friends and family seemed to dwindle. Less offers to cook a meal or help out, fewer inquiries about how I was truly doing left me feeling lonely. It felt like the world moved on, and expected I did too, but the reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. The further down the line, the heavier the invisible load of motherhood becomes.

One and a half years into motherhood. It’s true, things get better.

Sleep is much, much better now. I’m no longer breastfeeding and taking extra care of my body with food, supplements, and massages, which have made a huge difference in my wellbeing. But it will take some time before the cups I’m pouring from are filling up again. It only takes one virus for my baby to pick up from daycare (iykyk) for me to feel drained. Hopefully, one day they will overflow again, but it needs time. More than society thinks it takes. So that’s why I would love to ask you to be gentle with the mothers around you (or yourself). While we often rally around a new mother with meal trains after birth, let’s not forget about her after her 6-week checkup. Let’s continue to show up for her at 4 months, 6 months, 8 months, and far beyond. My baby is officially a toddler now, and from time to time, I still feel like I'm in survival mode. You may think I have it all figured out by now, that it comes naturally. All those assumptions are true, but simultaneously, I’m also navigating the unknown, doing my best. Bear with me/us. Please.

Written by Stephanie Broek.