My sister-in-law is about to have her first baby. She is about to become a mother. And somehow, even though I am only eight years into my own motherhood journey, watching her stand at the beginning has made me deeply nostalgic and sentimental. I still feel new at this some days. My boys are no longer babies, but my thoughts keep drifting back to those early hours and weeks because her story is just beginning.
If I could sit across from a brand-new mom, hands wrapped around a warm mug, eyes wide with anticipation, here is what I would tell her.
Very soon, on a day your doctors have roughly predicted, and your family is quietly counting down to, you are going to fall madly in love. This is not a vague someday kind of love. It is a love with a due date. A love that will enter the world at a specific hour and change yours instantly.
And it may not look like the movies.
There will be no slow-motion glow. You will likely be wearing a hospital gown that has seen better days. You might be sweaty. You might be stunned. You might be thinking, they are really letting us take this baby home? All of that is normal.
Also, brace yourself for the flood of advice. Some of it will be helpful. Some of it will be outdated. Some of it will be loud and wildly confident. Unsolicited advice can be a pain, even when it is well-intentioned. Smile, nod, take what serves you, and let the rest go. Above all else, trust your instincts. You will know your baby. You will learn their cries, their rhythms, their tells. That quiet voice inside you is wiser than you think.
And yes, I realize the irony of adding to the pile now. Consider this the loving, big sister version you can keep or toss as needed.
One practical thing I always tell first-time moms is this. If you can, deliver at a hospital with a NICU onsite. You hope you never need it. Most families do not. But there is a deep, steadying peace in knowing that if your baby needs extra support, even briefly, you will not be separated or transferred somewhere else. That quiet confidence matters more than you realize when everything feels new and tender.
Second, champion your mental health early and without apology.
You and I both know that anxiety is not theoretical. It is not something you read about in a book. It is something you have lived. Pregnancy and postpartum can amplify whatever was already there. The hormones are real. The sleep deprivation is real. The identity shift is real.
So, waste no time advocating for yourself. If medication has helped you before, do not hesitate to revisit that conversation. If you need more sleep, more help, more support, ask for it sooner than you feel comfortable. There is no medal for white knuckling motherhood.
Your baby does not need you to power through at all costs. Your baby needs you supported. Taking care of your mental health is not separate from taking care of your child. It is part of it.
Third, team up against the baby.
I say this with love and a wink, but I mean it. In those early months, it is easy to accidentally turn toward the baby and away from each other. One of you is exhausted. The other feels helpless. You are both quietly keeping score about who slept less.
Instead, picture the two of you on the same side of the table. The baby, sweet tiny dictator that they are, is the common challenge. You are co-leaders of this brand-new human. When the baby cries at two in the morning, it is not your turn versus my turn.
Sometimes that means one person feeds while the other changes the diaper. Sometimes it means one holds the baby while the other takes a ten-minute vacation running an errand to the grocery. Sometimes it means ordering takeout again and calling it survival.
Protect your relationship with the same fierceness you protect your baby. Assume the best about each other. Remember that this hard season is not the whole story.
And finally, find the humor in your new normal.
You will do things you once swore you never would. You will discuss bowel movements over dinner. You will consider three consecutive hours of sleep a major victory. You will feel oddly triumphant the first time you leave the house with the diaper bag fully stocked.
Lean into it.
Take blurry photos. Write down the absurd things you say at four in the morning. Laugh when the baby spits up on the one clean shirt you have left. Text me when you are rocking a baby while eating cold pizza and watching a show you have already seen because your brain cannot process new plot lines.
The early days are beautiful and brutal in equal measure. They are loud and quiet and sacred and mundane all at once. One day, you will look at your child racing across a playground and ache for the weight of their newborn body on your chest.
So, here is what I want you to carry into this spring.
Trust yourself. Choose what gives you peace. Lock arms with your partner. Embrace the emotions. Accept the help. Lower the bar.
You are not just having a baby. You are being born as a mother.
And you are going to be extraordinary.
