Alone with your newborn: The raw reality of the first day postpartum

The door clicked shut, and suddenly, I was alone. Just me and you. It wasn’t supposed to feel this quiet. Or this overwhelming.

I stared at my phone, wondering if it would be ridiculous to text someone, anyone. My partner, my mom, a friend.

Am I supposed to feel this way? Is the baby supposed to be making that noise? I typed out a dozen messages and deleted each one, embarrassed that I didn’t already know the answers.

Every five minutes, I checked the clock. I told myself I’d shower after your next nap, or eat something when you seemed settled, or maybe just sit for a moment to catch my breath.

But the next nap didn’t come. And you didn’t settle. And I didn’t sit. Instead, I paced the house, bouncing you in my arms and questioning everything I thought I knew.

The pile of dishes mocked me from the sink. The laundry stared at me from across the room. I thought about stepping outside for some fresh air but didn’t. It felt impossible to imagine going anywhere ever again.

The hours blurred together, feeding you, changing you, rocking you.

I googled everything. Is it normal for a baby to hiccup this much? Can you accidentally spoil a newborn? How long until I feel like myself again?

Sometimes, I cried. I cried because I was tired. I cried because I felt alone. I cried because, somehow, I loved you more than I thought was humanly possible.

But amidst the questions and the heaviness, there were moments. Small, fleeting ones that somehow made the chaos pause, like the way your tiny hand wrapped around my finger or the way your breathing slowed when you finally fell asleep on my chest. I remember staring at you, wondering how someone so small could make me feel so much.

And in that messy, unpolished moment, something softened inside me. I realized it was never about perfection or knowing all the answers. It was about being here, with you, figuring it out as we went. Loving you in the way only I could, imperfectly, but completely.

The first day alone wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t the kind of day you tell stories about or snap photos of. It was raw, overwhelming, and far from perfect. But as the light faded and the house grew quiet again, I looked at you, your little chest rising and falling, and I realized: we made it.

Somehow, we made it. Tomorrow, there would be more questions. More googling. More moments when I’d doubt myself. But there would also be more little wins, tiny reminders that we’re figuring this out. I’m figuring this out. And maybe, just maybe, I’m doing better than I think.

[This post was originally published by @theatlasofmotherhood on Instagram and has been republished with permission from the author.]