She loved her baby. She also missed herself. The person she was before sleep deprivation, constant worry, and endless feeds. Everyone said it gets better. No one said how to survive until it does.
Aisha is 34, with a 4-month-old who she adores. She also hasn't slept more than 3 consecutive hours since the birth. She can't remember the last time she showered without rushing. Her brain feels like it's operating at 40% capacity, and everyone keeps asking "isn't it magical?"
It is magical. It's also brutal. And she feels guilty for thinking that. She's supposed to be blissfully happy. Instead she's exhausted, touched-out, and mourning a version of herself that she's not sure will come back.
She has no time to journal, no energy to call friends, no bandwidth for therapy appointments. She has approximately 90 seconds at a time while the baby sleeps on her chest. That's when she started talking into her phone.
"*whispering* She's finally asleep on me. Can't move or she'll wake up. So I'm just... here. In the dark. Can't even scroll my phone because the light bothers her. Just me and my thoughts. And the thoughts aren't great right now. Is it normal to love someone this much and also feel like you're disappearing?"
"My partner came home and asked how my day was and I couldn't even answer. What do you say? 'I kept a human alive'? 'I changed 8 diapers'? 'I cried in the shower for 2 minutes because that was my only alone time'? There's no way to explain this day to someone who wasn't in it."
"I miss reading. I miss having thoughts that aren't about sleep schedules and feeding times. I miss conversations that don't get interrupted. I miss being a person, not just a milk dispenser and comfort object. Is that awful to say? It's true though. I love her. I also miss me."
You've recorded 11 entries, mostly between 2-4am. Here's what I'm hearing underneath the exhaustion:
These aren't contradictions. They're all true at once. The hard part isn't having these feelings. It's thinking you're not supposed to.
Am I a bad mom for missing my old life?
No. You're a human who went through a massive identity shift while severely sleep-deprived. Missing your old life doesn't mean you don't love your new one. It means you're honest about what you've lost alongside what you've gained.
Bad moms don't worry about being bad moms.
Will I ever feel like myself again?
You'll feel like a new version of yourself. Not the old you, but not just "mom" either. Right now you're in the blur. It won't always be this intense. The person emerging on the other side will surprise you.
"Realized something. These 2am voice notes are the only space that's just mine. No one needs anything from me here. I can say the unsayable things. The 'I'm not okay' things. The 'this is hard' things. It's 90 seconds but it's the only 90 seconds where I'm not performing."
"And weirdly, saying 'this is hard' makes it slightly less hard. Like the weight gets distributed somehow."
You've recorded 34 entries this month. The early ones were survival mode, all exhaustion and guilt. The recent ones include humor, small victories, even gratitude that doesn't feel forced. You're not out of the blur yet, but you can see the edges of it now.
"She laughed today. Like, really laughed. And for a moment the exhaustion and the identity crisis and the endless feeds just... didn't matter. This is why people do this. Not the Instagram moments. The real ones. The 4am ones. The both-of-us-crying ones. The unexpected laugh ones. It's hard and it's beautiful and I'm allowed to say both."
You can love being a parent and grieve your old self at the same time.
She didn't need an hour of self-care. She needed 90 seconds of honest expression. Voice notes fit into the chaos.
Hard and beautiful. Exhausted and grateful. Missing herself and loving her baby. All of it true at once.
The newborn phase doesn't last forever. Being able to name where she was helped her see she was moving through it.
Aisha still records voice notes, though now they're more often during afternoon naps than 3am feeds. She listens back to the early ones sometimes and marvels at how far she's come. The person who emerged from the blur isn't who she was before, but she likes her. A woman who survived, who was honest about how hard it was, and who loves fiercer than she ever knew possible.
If you're a new parent drowning in the beautiful chaos and have no time for anything, try 90 seconds of voice notes. Between feeds, during contact naps, in the middle of the night. Say what you can't say anywhere else.