“Look darling, it’s sunrise” — my fiancè’s distant voice creeps through the mist of tiredness and confusion. I unfurl my coiled body and raise my eyes. I realize I must have fallen asleep during the ever-shortening clears between each wave of pain. For an instant, I catch a pink glimpse of the frosty dawn unveiling outside the window. My brain conjures up the opening notes of Grieg’s Peer Gynt — a moment of perfect synesthetic bliss. The dreamy flute solo sharply zaps into silence when the next contraction seizes me.
Labour had washed over me during the night at the end of a week spent moving into our new flat. My fiancè and I had been apart for most of my pregnancy — after sharing with my in-laws during lockdown, shortly upon discovering I was pregnant I moved back to Italy and in with my mother. Sam joined me in November, three weeks before my due date. By that point, my mother’s one-bed apartment had become rather tight. Then, in a serendipitous turn of events, a flat miraculously frees up on the week of my daughter’s predicted arrival. The irresistible urge to nest paired with the desire to have a space of our own to finally be alone together, equips me with an unprecedented surge of energy — at 40 weeks pregnant and with a belly roughly the size of Pluto, I am actively contributing to our move.
By Friday night the apartment is clean, our belongings unboxed, and the Christmas is tree up, lights and all. We’re both exhausted but satisfied. Baby is due on Sunday — tight…but not undoable. Except that…“I think she’s coming tonight”. Sam looks at me with tired eyes that seem to plead — “No, please. Can’t you hold her in a little longer?”. The rest of that night is a blur. All I remember is shivering and burning at the same time.
Then, my first memory of her. Crystal clear and glowing at the edges. The pain has suddenly faded. Fire and ice have gone. A fresh stream of crisp morning light gushes into the room. Two large eyes, confused but calm, meet mine. She doesn’t cry. She just waits. Without hesitation, my body welcomes her impossibly real presence into my arms. She starts suckling — her eyes close, a small hand rests against my heart. My mind is still. I surrender.
I was not prepared for all the feelings that would follow her arrival. The fear, the exhaustion, the disorientation. But above all — always inevitably overpowering any other emotion — love. I had loved her from the moment she had manifested herself in the shape of two pink lines on a stick. And I had loved her with every passing month that she had spent inside me. But, somehow, that was different. Loving her while she was still part of my own body was one thing. There was something…linear, obvious, even easy about it. But this, this I had not expected.
Now that she was no longer physically tethered to me, somehow I felt even closer to my daughter. An irresistible magnetic force pulled me towards her — as if, in leaving my body to enter this world within her own, she had taken a flake of my soul out and away with her. We had swapped positions — she was outside of my body and, somehow, I was inside hers. Before there had been no distance between us — in a way, for nine months we had been one and the same. Then, within the space of one night, I had returned to being just me again while she would live on as her, forever carrying a part of me inside. A part that would always call me. A part that would always be more precious, more valuable than the rest of me that she had left behind. Now, only now, I realized what loving her more than I loved myself really meant.
There is something deeply instinctual and at the same time entirely antithetical about a mother’s love. Its power runs so deep that it has transformed my love for myself too. My survival instincts are now polarized. On one side, I know I must survive for her. More than survive — for her, I want to live. My life, my health, and my happiness have all acquired a new richer meaning — for the first time in years, I matter. And yet, paradoxically, I don’t. I have never felt more at peace with the notion that, should the day ever come when I am faced with this impossible existential choice, I will always choose her life above mine. I am now guided by a force stronger than my innate sense of self-preservation. If today I fear death like never before it’s because to die would mean to leave her. But if my death meant her life, then to die would be my only choice and wish.
While I hope that day never comes, this is an intrinsic knowing that originates somewhere deep. It presents itself as an ancestral, irresistible imperative — there is no doubt, not even a shadow of hesitation in my accepting its truth. I signed this contract the moment her body left mine and my survival instincts split, forever and incontrovertibly. I became blood-bound to this unspoken vow the day we were both born — she as my daughter and I as her mother. This is a law I am encoded to obey. Its words are engraved in my very bones. I will never belong solely to myself again. This is the law of a mother’s heart.
Two years on, I am slowly realizing that, although she is mine to cherish, she is not mine to own. Every day I watch her grow and change, inevitably getting further away from me — pain claws at my soul while joy and pride heal my wounds. So very soon, she will no longer need my hand to go up and down the stairs. But in my heart, my hand will always be ready to catch her. So very soon, she will no longer turn to me to find safety, reassurance and comfort. But I know I will be there, watching from a distance, learning to trust her as she, too, learns the same lesson.
In the space of three years, she has lived in me, on me, and through me — I have been her home, her life sustenance, her refuge…her entire world. This morning, on her way to the playhouse, she cuddled up to me and, as if she knew how I was feeling, she said “Byebye Mama, see you later”. So very soon, I will belong to her more than she belongs to me.
Yes, soon. But not today. Today she’s only two years old. And my selfish human heart rejoices knowing that she will still reach out for my hand to step down the stairs and she will still seek my eyes to find comfort when she’ll fall, at least for a little while longer. So I hold on to the bitter-sweet taste of these fleeting moments — accepting that every first for her is a last for me, secretly hoping that time won’t rush us apart too soon. Today she’s only two years old.
I hope that my letter this week will move you to cherish time with your children, whatever their age may be, and feel gratitude for every gift that their presence in your life brings to you.
With love always,
Julia
If these words spoke to your heart and you feel called to share your thoughts, please open up freely. This is a safe space and I am just another imperfect mama looking for support, inspiration and community — your words and your story are a gift.
If you can think of some other mama out there who’s heart is calling for these words, please share this letter with them. Thank you for believing in me and seeing value in my writing.
Thank you Julia. I am sitting in the parking lot in my car, because my 1 year old girl felt asleep. W
And it was perfect time for me to take a break. Although we have full day of things to do. But we just spend 3 days of packing and moving into a new home. And I am 32w pregnant and I am tired. So I got myself a cup of cacao and chose to use this time to read.
And I am sitting in this parking lot and crying out of joy and love, that you brought to my heart with your writing. This touches my deeply, I do not know if I ever felt this blessed like I do now. In this moment in the car when I have gazzilion things to do, just watching her sleeping and feeling the love in my whole body.
Thank you, you are a very powerful writer. Your ability to create transformative space in writing in amazing. ❤️❤️❤️❤️
Julia, this is the most beautiful love letter to your daughter and I felt every word in my bones and in my heart. Yes to the fear of death and not being with them any more. And yes to the excruciating feeling of them growing up, of holding tight and letting go. She will always be a part of your body too (I think this is an actual scientific fact that a baby’s cells stay in your body for decades) and will never leave you xx