I was in the middle of a quiet, dimly lit, living room workout with my husband when I realized we had done it. We had curated the perfect soft postpartum.
While it didn’t entirely start out that way, I did make a decision a couple of weeks ago to treat my recovery and very first postpartum life experience as a sacred, soft, once-in-a-lifetime experience. And, let’s just say, that changed everything.
The first few weeks were as blissful as they get, with the occasional meltdown and some much-to-be-expected family drama. I was mere hours out of my C-section surgery (still marveling at the birth story—it may forever be too soon to write about… even for me, a writer) when I almost bypassed all the “rules” to tend to the house and, well, everyone’s feelings.
Of course, in the first week, there’s much to be purchased and adjusted. Who you were on the registry is not who you become 72 hours post-delivery. And while everyone says they want to be a supportive village, very few are truly prepared for what that actually looks like. And, as hard as it is to admit, fresh new mothers are usually the ones left to pick up the pieces.
There’s an irony in the way we speak about the village. We romanticize the huts, the generations of women gathered around a new mother, and the communal raising of a new child. But somewhere between the village hut and our little condo-hut downtown, the definition of support became rather confused…
Everyone wants to hold the baby. But very few people know how to hold the mother.
There’s no need to go into detail over laundry loads, midnight Amazon carts, and the piercing screams of a newborn who’s been in everyone’s arms but her mama’s all day. It merits no lines on paper to describe the breakdowns we went through when family turned their backs on us after we requested a recovery hiatus before everyone got to meet the baby. And I will very well keep to myself the rage I felt while washing everyone’s dishes as they played village and I was forced to play housekeeper.
… Some things are better left off the page.
Others, however—like this—require an entire Substack essay.
It’s now safe to say I’ve turned a healthy corner. One that, dare I say, gave me the postpartum experience I truly wanted.
Let me begin by stating that I’ve had the postpartum of champions.
Our baby is healthy, and I’ve had no complications. I have not only lost all my pregnancy weight, but I’ve somehow snatched back to my pre-COVID body without much effort or delay, while still eating enough to maintain my abundant milk supply. (Some might say they performed a Cesarean and a Brazilian butt lift. Who am I to debate that?)
Best of all, the only postpartum blues I had were changing our baby’s wardrobe from blue to pink after being surprised with a baby GIRL in the operating room.
I can’t state enough how much I’ve prayed for this and how blessed I am to type these very words. I know how rare it is to come out of childbirth with a healthy baby and on the other side of an experience I spent nine months praying for. None of these things are lost on me. And none of them are things I believe I earned simply by doing things ‘right.’
But as much as I give all thanks to God, I did also partake in many of the decisions required to say yes to the things that mattered and no to the things that compromised them.
My postpartum could have easily downtrended had I not had the mom-balls to put up boundaries and prioritize the right things. Seeing who I was a week into motherhood and who I am now at one month is a testament to the words I’ll impart to you below.
For the record, yes… my baby cries—hurls, even. There have been early mornings and some very challenging nights. But I made a decision in early pregnancy, and another in very early postpartum, to make the most of my experience. And staying true to that meant showing up even when it’s not easy or convenient.
‘As it turns out, softness requires a surprising amount of backbone.’
The Soft Postpartum Rules
Everything I learned about protecting my peace while wearing disposable diapers.
Non-negotiables.
Everything showers. Hot coffee... the first time. Never ignore when nature calls (if you know what I mean. 💩) And, as of today, I’ve added brushing my teeth first thing in the morning to that list. (You’d be surprised how quickly three p.m. rolls by.)
Some nights, the shower is quick. Some mornings, I force myself to wake up before the baby. And some days, I stop mid-feed to make that bathroom trip while my husband deals with a hungry (exclusively breastfed) baby. But I do them because they fill my cup.
‘Motherhood may have rearranged my schedule, but it won’t touch my priorities…’
Speak TF up.
Truth be (finally) told, it took falling into some deep and ugly postpartum places to find the voice and boundaries to ask for what I needed.
Sometimes that was space. Sometimes that was help. For the most part, it was having the guts to tell people to fuck right off when lines around my newborn bubble were crossed.
There is something about becoming a mother that makes you acutely aware of how many people have opinions about an experience they aren’t living. Everyone has a suggestion, an expectation, a preference, or a tradition. And while many of those things come from a place of love, they can quickly become another responsibility for two new parents who are already carrying enough.
I learned that protecting my peace sometimes means disappointing people. But that being a good mother did not require being an accommodating host. And that the people who truly wanted to support my recovery would understand the difference between being welcomed into our newborn bubble and being entitled to it.
I spent far too much of my first two weeks worrying about everyone else’s feelings. I have spent the weeks since then making sure mine are considered, too.
‘Boundaries are not the opposite of softness. They’re what make it possible.’
Dress up.
Lucky for me, I pre-purchased a bunch of gorgeous pajamas before giving birth.
I basically lived in cheetah print and FridaMom diapers, which made that first postpartum bleed feel a tad more fabulous. There’s something very amusing about wearing a beautiful matching set while simultaneously sporting disposable nipple pads. Ahhh—the humbling reality of motherhood.
Now I have enough of a routine to prioritize putting on an actual outfit every day. I purchased clothes that I knew were practical for this season, but also felt elevated. Because, even though I don’t believe getting dressed is equal to being a good mother, I do believe that feeling like yourself matters, especially during a season when so much of you is being poured into your baby.
Some days, I dress up solely for our morning walks. Other days, I coordinate outfits with my mini-me, because having a daughter absolutely means matching cheetah print. And on that rare occasion, I’ll take an everything shower, put on some makeup, do my hair (claw clips count), and slip into a tight dress just to get that look from my husband (six weeks is a longggg time for a man).
Self-care.
Sometimes scar mobility takes precedence over another load of laundry.
Sometimes breastfeeding on the balcony egg chair during sunset does more for my mental health than anything else I could have accomplished that day.
And sometimes, self-care looks nothing like the skincare rituals I used to write about.
I may or may not have already booked my first pedicure back. Not because I was necessarily ready to leave the baby, but because I broke a nail so bad that self-care literally meant fixing it. **Ha ha ha ha delirious, overtired mom laugh.**
The point is, I’ve stopped treating self-care as something I get to do once everything else is finished. Because everything else is never gonna be finished.
There will always be another pump part to wash, another onesie to fold, and another surface to wipe down. And if I wait until the house is spotless and the laundry is done to give myself permission to recover, I’ll be waiting until this kid moves out.
So sometimes I choose the scar massage. Sometimes I choose the sunset. Sometimes I choose the little aloe vera eyepatches I found on Amazon to make me feel feminine again.
And sometimes, I choose to do nothing at all. ‘Cause believe it, or not, that counts, too.
Working out.
I have yet to attend my six-week clearance appointment, but I have definitely been doing gentle mobility and recovery exercises to support my scar recovery, keeping within the limits of this season.
While everybody says to sleep when the baby sleeps (one of motherhood’s most ambitious works of fiction), sometimes a little carpet workout goes just as far for my mental health.
My husband and I have found ourselves doing little exercise sessions in the evening with the lights dimmed down and the baby sleeping beside us, just to put ourselves first.
They resemble nothing like the workouts we once considered productive. But there’s something far more fulfilling about becoming the best versions of ourselves and still wanting to look/feel good for each other—all while our daughter snores beside us. (Have you even heard those newborn grunts?)
It was during one of these sessions that I realized how much had changed.
A month ago, I was recovering from surgery, overwhelmed by visitors, and trying to understand how to care for a newborn while still caring for myself. Now, here we are, finding pockets of time to move together just like we did when we were pregnant.
It felt like everything I hoped our postpartum would be.
Presence.
All of this wouldn’t be possible if presence wasn’t at the forefront of my experience.
The only reason minutes go by slower and more intentionally is because presence is my first priority. I only find the time to fit in what matters because I take every single second as it comes.
I don’t mean that I’ve somehow mastered time management with a newborn. Quite the opposite. But I have learned that trying to manage every minute is often what makes the moments disappear.
So, I stopped living three tasks ahead of myself.
When I’m feeding my daughter, I’m feeding my daughter. When I’m having my coffee, I’m having my coffee. When my husband and I have a few quiet moments together, I try not to spend them mentally reorganizing the closet.
Of course, I’m not always successful. There are still days when my mind fixates on everything that needs to get done.
But I keep returning to the same thought: I will never get this exact moment with my daughter again.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the laundry is finally folded.
And I’d rather remember the weight of her little body against mine than the satisfaction of having a perfectly clean home.
Pray.
Say absolutely less.
This should be first because every single day, it is the first thing I do when I wake up and the last thing I do before I close my eyes.
I fill my days with as much prayer as I possibly can, and motherhood makes it easy to pray for everything.
Pray during the good. Pray through the bad. And pray just to tell God how grateful you are.
I prayed for this child long before I ever conceived her. I prayed through pregnancy, through the operating room, and through those first few nights. And now I pray over everything. Her sleep. Her health. Her future. My patience. My marriage. And, above all, the ability to recognize when I need help and the courage to ask for it.
I don’t believe I could have created this experience on my own. And I don’t intend to pretend otherwise.
And that brings me to one of the most practical lessons in motherhood of all:
Learn that you will win some and lose some. You gotta pick your battles.
Not every day is picture-perfect. And I definitely don’t have it all figured out.
Every parent learns very quickly that what worked yesterday may never work again, and you never truly do figure it all out.
For example, I was a strict no-white-noise-machine pregnant woman, and I just bought two as a new mother.
Two, bruh.
There were things I swore I would never do that have become total necessities as we entered parenthood. Things I had strong opinions about before I had an actual baby.
It’s insane how quickly a newborn can dismantle nine months of very confident (yet naive) parenting philosophies.
My mom very wisely told me to pick my battles, and I think this is a piece of advice every new parent should take with them. Peace of mind and happy parents weigh far more than perfection. I’ve learned to distinguish between the things that genuinely matter and the things I simply thought would matter before I became a mother.
Some things are worth standing firm on. Others are worth surrendering for the sake of a peaceful postpartum.
Let go of perfection.
I quickly learned that the house will be a mess about 70% of the time. The Amazon cart will never be empty. The dishes will reappear. Laundry will regenerate at a rate that blows your freakin’ mind. And the baby will need you right at the moment you thought you had to yourself.
But you only get one very short postpartum experience with each child, and those very sacred days help shape the years that will follow.
I don’t believe every day will be magical. And I don’t think a beautiful postpartum relies on pretty pajamas and a positive attitude. Recovery is unpredictable. Babies are unpredictable. And life, unfortunately, does not always honor our plans.
I know that I have been extraordinarily fortunate. I have a healthy baby, a loving husband, a body that has recovered well so far, and a God who has done immeasurably more than I could ever ask for or imagine.
But I’ve also learned that even within a blessed experience, you have to decide what you’re willing to steward and protect.
You have to decide whether the dishes can wait. Whether the visitors can wait. Whether you are willing to be misunderstood for the sake of your wellbeing. And whether the motherhood you imagined is something you’re actually prepared to advocate for once the baby arrives.
If you learn these lessons quickly, put your priorities first, and speak up for the experience that you need and desire, then trust me when I say you can create a soft postpartum, too.
Not a perfect one. And definitely not one without hard days and sometimes harder nights.
But one where your recovery matters as much as everyone else’s excitement. And your baby can have a soft newborn bubble to land into.
Somewhere between the village huts we once romanticized and our little hut in a downtown apartment, I realized that sometimes the softest thing a new mother can do is close the door, hold her baby, and let the rest of the world wait.
Signing off for my sanity & see you soon x
Sarah Elle
