kayfromhome

I’m sorry for the unread messages. I’m sorry that I never called. I’m sorry that I missed your birthday.

I’m sorry that the friend you have isn’t the one I used to be.

I’m not who I once was. Not even for myself.

My life. My body. My house. It’s all unrecognizable.

Half held conversations, unanswered texts, unfinished coffee, and the never ending list of things that have been left wholly undone. This is my reality now.

No excuses, but please excuse me. Let me off the hook that I feel myself dying on, because I promise you, I’m already reeling.

Did I switch the laundry?

I didn’t finish the…

I need to call…

I haven’t…

I…

I…

Who am I, anyway?

I am a new mother. I am a vegetable. Something dull, round, and likely rotting.

Another new mother shared how much she loved nursing because it was a forced rest time. It caused her to slow down and be fully present and engaged with the moment that was happening, right now.

Such a beautiful sentiment.

So unrealistic in my own experience.

I hate nursing. I get hormonal migraines and I feel like a dairy cow. All pudgy and splotchy.

But I love my baby. I love my baby. I can’t breathe without her.

Actually, I just can’t breathe.

These four walls are closing in on me—I am suffocating beneath the weight of the unseen open tabs.

I really am sorry for not showing up for you, when you needed me.

But I think it might just be my turn to be needy.