The Waiting Season: My Third Trimester Truth
I didn’t expect the final stretch to feel so… still.
By the time I reached the third trimester, everything had slowed down. My body. My thoughts. Even time itself. It’s like the world paused to make space — for what was about to come.
I had thought this part would feel fast-paced — packing hospital bags, setting up the crib, checking off to-do lists. And yes, all of that happened. But there were also entire afternoons where I just sat, one hand on my belly, wondering what their little face would look like.
My belly had grown into a full, round moon. Every stretch, every wobble, every breath reminded me: we’re getting close.
Small rituals that grounded me:
Night became sacred.
After my evening shower, I’d slather belly balm across my skin like it was a slow dance. Then I’d slide into my softest nightgown — the kind I bought with postpartum in mind but started wearing early because… comfort. I sipped warm chamomile tea and wrapped myself in a robe that made me feel like I lived in a spa, not a nesting zone.
I made a corner just for baby — and one just for me.
The baby’s corner had soft blankets, tiny socks, wipes, and a bassinet I swore I set up wrong at least three times.
My corner had cooling leg cream, a water tumbler I carried everywhere, and a nursing bra that actually fit. No lace. No wires. Just breathable peace.
I finally packed my hospital bag — twice.
The first version had 20 things I didn’t need. The second? Just the essentials: oversized undies, labor snacks, a long phone charger, and the softest swaddle set I could find. I even tucked in a card I wrote for future-me, just in case I forgot how strong I was.
I downloaded a contraction timer app… and deleted it twice.
Some days, I was ready. Other days, I just wasn’t. That’s okay. I learned that readiness isn’t about the perfect plan — it’s about surrender.
There was one night, around 39 weeks, where I sat on the floor in the nursery. Lights off. Just me and the glow of a nightlight. I held a tiny onesie in my hands and whispered, “We’re almost there, baby.”
And for the first time — I wasn’t afraid.
Not of labor. Not of what I didn’t know. Not of who I would become.
Because I had already changed.
I had already become a mother — quietly, slowly, deeply — in every unspoken moment along the way.
If you’re here now, swollen feet and all —
Know this: you don’t have to rush the waiting.
Let yourself be held by the stillness.
Let the world shrink down to soft things, warm tea, and deep breaths.
You’re not just preparing for birth —
You’re preparing to meet someone you’ve always known.