1 Year As a Mother
Lessons learned, joy, exhaustion, and proof that manifestations are real.
It's been one year since I gave birth under Spring showers at 1:40 in the morning. Spread-eagle under the glow of an epidural, I clenched and laughed through contractions until she popped out — a tiny, squishy ball of brand-new life after 4 days in and out of the hospital and 1 hour and a half of primal pushing.
We named her Reyna (a family name meaning “queen” in Spanish), Marigold (the bright yellow bloom, known as the best companion plant in the garden), Carrasco (our last name, also a rare oak tree in Spain, where we plan to visit next year to see it for ourselves).
She’s perfect, she’s magic. Precisely what everyone claims a baby is: the purest love you’ll ever feel.
A Love Letter to My Girl
Is there a single word that captures the transformation into motherhood? Metamorphosis, expansion, rewiring, transition? The truth, boring as it sounds, it's all of them. 1,000 tiny moments married into an ever-defining continuum.
But if I were forced to narrow it down, I'd say it's been an expansion of self and a reminder that an incredible version of me was always waiting just beneath the surface, even back in my early twenties when I was lost in manic depression.
When I look at my daughter, my eyes swell. It’s a gift to love something as radiant as my Reyna. She’s curious, fearless about voicing what she wants, and happily greets strangers at the coffee shop. She adores grass, sunshine, and the ladybugs in our yard. She moves about the space with purpose. And when she’s tired, she rests her head on your shoulder, eyes drifting shut, always the best sport for whatever new adventure Mom and Dad take her on.
I wrote an essay on why being a girl’s mom is everything, and a year later, I stand by every word. Raising a confident, strong, courageous daughter has quickly become one of my life’s most meaningful purposes.
She’s proof that manifestation is real. Long before she arrived, I pictured a fearless, spunky, nature-loving child who’d trot around in overalls and gnaw on whole apples — maybe not down to the last detail, but close. Son or daughter, I wanted a mini Carrasco who carries their mother’s tenacity and their father’s wisdom, someone who meets their community with kindness and openness instead of seeing life as a transaction. Someone who gives more than they take and loves wholeheartedly and unconditionally.
I’ve Earned My Sleep
The exhaustion of motherhood isn’t about surviving a single, grueling day. It’s about knowing that when you’ve pushed yourself to the edge, you’ll still have to get up tomorrow and do it all over again — no breaks, no days off. It’s thankless, relentless, all-encompassing work that demands every ounce of your heart and mind. You can’t pick and choose when to show up, and there’s no schedule specifying lunch breaks or set hours. If your child has a bad day, you have a bad day. Their thoughts, fears, hunger, and pain are your own, stacked on top of the emotions you already carry as a normal adult.
A typical weekday looks like this: I rise with the sun at 5:30 a.m. It’s the only time I have to deep-clean our home before the day’s chaos begins — scrubbing counters and dishes, fluffing the couch, disinfecting bathrooms, vacuuming, maybe mopping, plus tackling the first of many laundry loads. Then I light a candle, make coffee, prep breakfast, and brace for the juggle: computer work, keeping my daughter occupied on the mat, swapping my attention between her and my job. I catch myself staring at the clock, waiting for a moment of calm that rarely comes.
Between diaper changes, toy cleanup, meal prep, sanitizing, feeding, wiping down her face, and heating the bath, I estimate I spend around 3 hours a day on dedicated feeding and cleaning alone. Multiply that by 7 days, and then again by 52 weeks, and you’re staring at a jaw-dropping figure — one that doesn’t even include the time spent caring for her while also working the typical 40-hour week. So, if you calculate the whole 11-hour wake window on the days, I have her full-time, suddenly, childcare hours soar into the thousands each year, not even counting weekends or casual playtime.
Yet somehow, we’re conditioned not to talk about this invisible labor. Our society slaps zero value on care work, even though tending to a child is not just essential; it’s an act of affection. I do it willingly — and I'd do more without complaint — because I love my daughter and want her to thrive in a healthy, safe environment. Still, I share these numbers because when a parent says they’re tired, they need you to believe them.
I was talking to a friend the other week about this very thing. Around a crackling backyard fire, she asked, “What’s your biggest lesson learned from being a mom?” and I answered, “I’ve earned my sleep.” I don’t count hours because I have something to prove; I count them because sometimes it feels like the only tangible evidence of the work I pour into my child’s life.
Being tired from doing something you've set out to do is a privilege I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I Used To Be Spontaneous & Fun & Cool & Sexy
But guess what? I STILL AM!
Honestly, being nearly 30 as her mom is the hottest and most fabulous I’ve ever felt.
“Do you actually feel like yourself, though? Like, isn’t your life over?” — an actual question I got from a random acquaintance when my daughter was just four months old, among others. How, as a society, have we allowed each other to convince young women to be so sterile toward new moms? Especially at a time when we crave community and understanding the most.
Learning to be a mother in the age of the internet — where people disparage women who love their families and enjoy cooking (as if these things somehow belong exclusively to the conservative right, neither of which I subscribe to) is bewitching. It’s always the non-moms dumping on the moms, the men dumping on the women, and both sides of the pendulum pointing fingers without accountability.
I grew up an only child with a relatively distant relationship with my mother until recently. She’s a wonderful grandma, and we’ve begun mending our once-shared generational trauma into lessons learned (a continual work in progress). Thus, my inherent relationship with motherhood could easily have been poisoned by these nihilistic tendencies surface-level white feminists peddle online. But, guess what? The human experience is multifaceted, internet feeds aren’t reality, and people will throw weird comments at you no matter who you are or where you go.
Truth is: the support and love from our family and friends this last year have been immeasurable. I get teary-eyed just thinking about how tight-knit our group has become. We’re out in the parks for long walks together, spending evenings cooking dinner and showing up at each other’s volunteer events. I’ve never felt more supported, loved, and heard in my life — and not a day passes where I’m not keenly aware of how good I have it.
If you’re one of those besties reading this, know I couldn’t have navigated this past year without you, and I don’t say that enough.
My Favorite Part About Mothering
It’s no longer about me, and my god, that’s liberating. I’m no longer the main event in my own story, which means I can redirect my energy toward loving her, my husband, and our home. To something bigger than myself.
Also, let’s talk about my arms for a second: mom-strength is real. Women carry societies — physically, emotionally, and socially — on our backs. Literally. There’s a YouTube compilation I bookmarked recently that shows exactly how:
But honestly, the best part is knowing she’s half of the most remarkable man I’ve ever known. Her dad is her hero. He’s my hero! I’ve never been more head-over-heels for Reyce than I have this past year, watching him be so fiercely protective and loving toward both of us. That’s a whole separate essay in itself.
Love you, Reyna! Happy birthday, silly girl!
Reyna is so cute and seems so happy! So impressed with your ability to juggle it all!
As someone previously absorbed in her inner world and self-improvement, I've also found relief that it's no longer all about me now that I'm a mother. That was getting boring!