Coming Back to Myself: My Postpartum Recovery Story
No one really talks about the after.
After the pushing.
After the first cry.
After the room quiets down and they hand you this tiny, warm, blinking bundle…
And your body feels like a stranger.
I thought labor was the hard part.
But what came after — the soreness, the emotions, the leaking, the silence between midnight feedings — that was a whole new birth in itself.
Mine.
Little by little, I began to come back.
My first shower at home felt like a rebirth.
I moved slowly. The water hit my back, and I almost cried from how normal it felt.
I used a gentle perineal spray someone had gifted me in a recovery kit — and for the first time since birth, I didn’t wince.
I wrapped myself in the softest robe I had packed in my hospital bag and whispered, “We made it.”
I gave up on “bouncing back.”
I didn’t bounce. I rested.
I lived in high-waisted postpartum underwear and nursing tanks that didn’t pinch.
I laid on cooling pads and sat on a donut cushion like it was a throne.
I drank warm tea for milk supply and let my body be soft.
Because I had just done something strong.
I made a “Mom Shelf” beside the bed.
I stocked it with nipple cream, breast pads, my giant water tumbler, and a snack bar I could eat with one hand.
I kept a tiny notebook to write down feeding times, but mostly I filled it with thoughts like,
“Today I made her laugh.
Today I cried too.”
I looked at my body in the mirror — slowly.
At first, I didn’t recognize her.
But instead of judging, I thanked her.
For stretching. For carrying. For letting go.
Then I rubbed a bit of belly balm on the stretch marks, not to erase them — but to honor the story they told.
This wasn’t healing in the way people expected.
It wasn’t a checklist.
It was an unfolding — tender, blurry, holy.
There were days I didn’t get out of pajamas. Days I forgot what time it was.
But there were also days I laughed so hard I leaked, and nights I stared at her sleeping and forgot about the pain entirely.
So if you’re in it now — this foggy, sacred place called recovery —
Here’s what I want to say:
You are not behind.
You are not broken.
You are rebuilding — gently, honestly, beautifully.
Let the healing be slow.
Let the softness stay.