I’m still in postpartum clothes, stretched and stained, reminders of the nights and days that have shaped me.
I’m still wearing my hair whichever way is easiest—messy, practical, pulled back just enough to keep going.
I’m still healing after birth, the undoings of my body hidden beneath the constant doings of motherhood.
I’m still up every few hours, day and night, feeding him, exhausted, worn to the edges, yet unwilling to stop.
I’m still carrying him everywhere, his smallness feeling heavier in my arms while mine grow stronger.
I’m still changing diapers, wiping spills, cleaning endless messes—relentless cycles that both drain and define me.
I’m still anchored at home most days, grounded under his weight, present for every small need, while the rest of the world waits.
I’m still drinking too much coffee and living mostly on love, cup empty but heart overflowing.
I’m still learning who we are, him first and me second, discovering the rhythm of us in moments both fleeting and eternal.
I’m still tired.
I’m still hormonal.
I’m still wrapped in a bubble of love that is soft, intense, and all-consuming.
And yet, it’s not still the newborn phase.
It’s not the fourth trimester.
It’s six months postpartum.
Three months past the fourth.
But it’s also, in a way, zero months.
Zero months past the stage of still being needed every second.
Zero months past the stage of still being there for every cry, every sigh.
Zero months past still being his constant, his safe, his everything.
There are still mothers everywhere—fifth trimester, sixth, seventh, even the tenth.
Tired eyes and wakeful nights.
Sore bodies and lapses that feel endless.
They do much the same as in the fourth trimester, but no one names it, classifies it, or gives it justification beyond “tired Mama.”
And they don’t receive the same support, except from the hands that will always be there, quietly, faithfully.
They can feel like they’re being washed away by the tide that still crashes, forgotten in the memories they are still making, invisible in the work that is everything and yet unseen.
Mama, who is past the fourth, who is still here, still present—I see you.
You still matter.
You may no longer get a numbered stage or title, but remember this: you are still someone’s number one.
