Three Years of Motherhood

My son turns three today.
Three whole years of being a mother.
Me. A mum. Caring, nurturing, guiding another little human as he grows and learns to understand the world around him.

Sometimes, it all feels surreal.
Like, how did time pass this quickly?
And then there are other days where time feels slow and sacred.
Whether we are playing, laughing or I am holding space for his big feelings
Time stretches. And so do I.

I remember the day he was born so clearly
Excitement. Joy. Anxiety. Fear.
Every emotion all at once.

I was given the flyers. The booklets. The hospital printouts.
All explaining what postpartum would look like.
What to expect from a newborn.

But none of them told me I would feel like I was floating between worlds for so long.
None told me what it would feel like to try and help another human regulate, while being completely dysregulated myself.

None of them taught me to trust my intuition.
None of them showed me how to carry the grief of losing who I was,
While falling in love with someone new, the version of me that was being born too.

Years later, I am still learning.
Still asking:
Have I let go of the woman I used to be?
Have I fully embraced this new version of me?
How long does it take to feel like yourself again?
And who is that self now?

What I do know is this:
I need space for all of my emotions to be welcomed and felt
So I can be present with his.

I wish more mothers spoke about this.
About the floating. The grief. The in-between.
And how, if it lasts years, it is still valid. It is still normal.

Today, my heart is full.
And heavy.
Because my baby is no longer a baby.
He is still little but not that little anymore.
And I am still becoming—softly, slowly—alongside him.