I had an idea of what motherhood would look like.

I thought I’d be that glowy, breastfeeding mum —
spending my days at cafés, parks, and shopping centres.

Out and about.
Relaxed.
Looking like I had it all together.

I don’t know if anyone actually feels like that —
but I thought I would.

In reality, I didn’t want to leave the house.

Everything about it felt like too much.

What to pack.
How long we’d be out.
Would he sleep in the pram?

All of it for something as simple as a coffee.

Most days, it felt easier to just stay home.

I expected breastfeeding to come naturally.

But it didn’t feel right for me.

The toll it took on my mental health
was more than I had anticipated.

And I hadn’t prepared for the alternative.

Learning how to formula feed.
How to prepare it properly.
What I needed, how to clean it, how to manage it all.

I was pumping as well —
and that was just doubling everything.

Two ways of feeding.
Two sets of equipment.
More to manage, more to think about.

It quickly became too much.

I thought I’d love being at home.

But I missed work.

I missed using my brain in a different way.
I missed structure.
I missed the feeling of being productive in a way I recognised.

There were only so many songs I could sing.
Only so many books I could read
to someone who couldn’t yet respond.

What I expected
and what I experienced
were very different things.

But over time,
I started to understand that this was my version of it.

Not the one I had imagined —
but the one I was living.

And within it,
I found something I didn’t expect.

Resilience.

Perspective.

A version of myself
that I wouldn’t have met otherwise.

It didn’t come all at once.

But it came.

And I wouldn’t be who I am now
without it.