Postpartum continues

It’s been four months since baby.

My hair started shedding—

not losing locs, but my hair is falling out.

Missed out on the bad postpartum acne, but my mood has been funny.

Every postpartum, post-baby, is different.

They each have their own unique experience.

The joys of cuddles. The late night feedings. The sleepless nights. Midnight hour songs I made to soothe them.

Postpartum hit different after baby number four.

While each child was a joy to bear, it’s the aftermath that surprised me the most after baby number one.

It’s the experience of my body being sore, being hurt, being pained that had me lingering in pain after baby number one.

I remember thanking God for my husband because he was the main parent while my body did the work of recovering.

Baby number two—the recovery was better, but the difficulties of being a working mom started to hit hard.

You know, mom guilt, FOMO on baby milestones, tension to financially provide and also be with the boys.

Again, it was my husband who encouraged me to stop breastfeeding so I could sleep more.

Seven years later, we welcomed baby number three after fearing it was taking too long to get pregnant again.

And she came in all her glory… shinning.

Baby number three postpartum left me spent, exhausted, depleted. Loved meeting this baby and bonding, but struggled to identify who I was now as a mom of three.

Baby number four was a surprise and yet gave the sweetest memories upon delivery.

But it was the moment I came home, 24 hours after delivery, that the panic set in.

I felt my body rise with fear and uncertainty of whether or not I could really do this.

Am I now supposed to be the mother to all four kids—at the same time?

Now, four months postpartum, the anxiety is committed to rage.

I am committed to reach.

I am committed to ask for help.

I am committed to speak up when I’m overwhelmed.

I’m committed to sit on my therapist’s couch and cry my eyes out.

I’m committed to expressing my fear to my partner and friends—saying what I need and not holding back.

I’ve committed to changing my work schedule and saying no as often as I need to.

I’ve committed myself to recovery—just four months in.

Now, one year postpartum with baby number four, I can’t believe this body.

This sweet, precious body that has HELD ME while she held her.

This body—my sweet body—that has CARRIED me while she carried them.

This body, my body, has watched my locs fall out.

Watched my edges go bald.

Watched and witnessed the pain and constant moments of bleeding that could not be explained.

This body that sat in the doctor’s office and wept as she told me I was prediabetic.

This body—my body—that wept as she came to the realization that movement would and could heal me.

Now, I am 18 months postpartum with this beautiful baby number four.

I’m watching her walk, listening to her talk, and loving this body.

My body. My sweet, sweet body.

For as strong as my body has had to be, I just see her as soft.

I see her as capable.

I see her as connected.

I see her as whole… fully alive.

This body—my body—has carried me, held me while she carried them, and loved them.

This body—my body—had her husband, her mother, her friends, her sister, her sons, her brother, and her therapist to remind her that she can always take time for her body.

This body—my body—lives into the words of Audre Lorde:

“Overextending myself is not stretching myself. I had to accept how difficult it is to monitor the difference. Necessary for me as cutting down on sugar. Crucial. Physically. Psychologically. Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

At 18-months postpartum, I am finding myself again—leaning into my own creativity and giving my body the space she needs for rest, unapologetically.

Joi McGowan, LPC