This week marked the mystical milestone of six weeks postpartum—the point when, according to every cheerful pamphlet and well-meaning nurse, I was supposed to be “cleared” for normal life. I’m not sure what “normal” is anymore. I only know that my body and brain feel about as stable as a Jenga tower built by a caffeinated toddler.

At my six-week check-up, the doctor smiled and said, “Everything looks great!” while I tried to figure out if she was referring to my uterus or the fact that I was wearing clean leggings for once. She handed me a brochure about birth control options as though I hadn’t just emerged from a six-week boot camp of cracked nipples and existential dread. Birth control feels about as relevant to me as a vacation to Mars right now.

The (Alleged) Return to Normal Activities

This was the week I attempted to walk around the block with the baby in a carrier. I imagined it would look like one of those serene Instagram reels—peaceful mom, sleepy baby, golden hour lighting. In reality, I was sweating through my shirt within five minutes, my baby was screaming like a siren, and a neighbor I barely know shouted from her porch, “You look tired!” No shit, Debra. No shit.

Once I finally made it home, I realized I had a burp cloth draped over my shoulder like an accidental accessory. I sat on the couch, out of breath, trying to figure out when basic tasks became feats of strength and endurance. My body feels both foreign and familiar—like I’ve been gifted a rental vehicle I’m still learning to drive.

Intimacy (Spoiler: Not Happening)

The doctor also announced I was “cleared” for intimacy. I tried to imagine what that would even look like. My brain short-circuited. For the past six weeks, my body has been purely functional—a milk machine, a rocking chair, a source of comfort. The thought of anything remotely sensual just feels…unfathomable. I know someday it will feel natural again, but right now, it feels about as likely as winning the lottery while riding a unicycle.

Hormones Are Still Doing Their Thing

My hormones have not gotten the memo that it’s been six weeks. They are still throwing nightly raves. At 2 a.m., I find myself crying because I’m convinced I’m doing everything wrong. By 2:30 a.m., I’m crying because my baby’s face is so sweet it hurts my heart. Then by 3 a.m., I’m crying because I miss my old life, and then at 3:05 a.m., I feel guilty for missing it. It’s like being a guest in a haunted house of feelings—every door I open has another emotional jump scare.

Flashes of Something Like Myself

But in between the chaos, there are little moments—tiny glimpses—where I feel like a person again. I drank a hot cup of coffee this week, without reheating it three times. I showered and actually used conditioner. I laughed, a real belly laugh, over something stupid my partner said. These ordinary things feel like small miracles. They are proof that even though the fog hasn’t lifted, there are cracks where the light shines through.

I tried to fold the laundry, thinking it would make me feel accomplished. Instead, I ended up sitting in a pile of clothes, holding a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans that look like they belong to another woman. Nothing fits the same—physically or emotionally. My body is different. My mind is different. My marriage is different. Everything feels cracked open, raw, and unsteady.

The Myth of “Bouncing Back”

This week, I realized that “bouncing back” is a cruel myth. You don’t bounce. You don’t snap back. You crawl forward, sometimes in circles, sometimes with tears and a leaky boob. And if you’re lucky, you find a way to love this new version of yourself—not because she’s better or worse, but because she’s yours.

If you’re here, in week six, wondering why you don’t feel normal yet—please know you’re not behind. You’re not failing. You’re just healing, in your own time and your own way.

If You’re Here Too

If you’re reading this with a baby on your chest and crumbs in your hair, wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again—I see you. I am you. And though this week was exhausting and strange and overwhelming, it was also a week of tiny victories and stubborn hope.

Week six is messy. It’s disorienting. But it’s also proof you’ve survived six whole weeks of something no one can truly prepare you for. That’s not nothing. That’s everything.

With love and solidarity, Miriam