7 weeks postpartum and deep in the trenches of new mom life — sleep struggles, emotional rollercoasters, and the raw reality of motherhood with a newborn.”

Seven weeks. That’s how long it’s been since a tiny human emerged from my body and flipped my entire universe upside down like a badly stacked Jenga tower. And while there are still crusty burp cloths on every surface and I haven’t seen the bottom of the laundry basket since birth, something feels… different this week. Slightly clearer. Slightly steadier. Like maybe I’m learning how to mother and human at the same time without completely combusting.

The New Routine (Kind Of)

We’re not on a schedule per se. It’s more like… a list of hopeful intentions. Baby naps when the moon is in Virgo, I eat when I remember I’m a living organism, and we bathe only when someone smells weird (usually me). But it’s *our* rhythm now. It’s messy and often derailed, but it’s starting to feel familiar, like a song I’m slowly learning the words to.

Also, I now know exactly how long I can go without washing my hair before it becomes a self-sustaining oil farm. The answer is six days. Seven if I wear a headband and avoid mirrors.

The Identity Crisis is Ongoing (But Softer Now)

Some days I still mourn the woman I used to be—the one who wore real bras and made plans on a whim. I miss her. She had time for hobbies and didn’t smell faintly of milk. But I’m also getting to know this new version of me. She’s exhausted and emotionally unstable but also kind of a badass. She can change a diaper with one hand and eat cold pizza with the other while whispering affirmations to herself like a sleep-deprived monk.

It’s weird to exist in this in-between: not who I was, not quite who I’m becoming. A human bridge, suspended between past and future, wearing maternity leggings and googling “why does my baby grunt like a goat.”

I Laughed Until I Cried. Then I Cried Until I Laughed.

This week, I laughed at a TikTok of a woman trying to pee while holding a baby and spilling coffee on her foot. It was eerily specific. Then I cried because I realized I *am* that woman. Then I laughed again because honestly, what else can you do?

Motherhood is weird like that. It makes your emotions feel like a clown car—one minute rage, the next minute bliss, the next minute crying because a onesie no longer fits and oh my god, they’re already growing up too fast.

Healing Is Not Linear (But It Is Real)

My body still aches in strange places. My core strength is… aspirational at best. But I walked up a hill this week without panting. I cooked something that didn’t involve a microwave. I even responded to a text on the same day I received it, which is practically Olympic-level performance at this point.

Mentally, I still wobble. I have moments where I think, “I can’t do this,” followed by moments of fierce pride where I think, “Holy crap, I am doing this.” Healing isn’t a straight line, but I can tell I’m further along than I was. And that’s enough.

If You’re Still in the Thick of It

If you’re reading this at 3 a.m., bouncing a baby who refuses to sleep unless they’re draped dramatically across your chest like a French scarf—hi. I see you. I am you. You’re doing better than you think.

This seventh week is still hard. Still full of question marks. But there’s also a flicker of light, a brief sense that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to get the hang of this. Or at least you’re better at winging it.

We’re still in it, mama. But we’re further in. And that counts for something.

With love, snacks, and dry shampoo, Miriam