Hi. It’s lovely to speak again.
What a way to start a blog, right?
But I said it would be real and raw — and real life doesn’t always wait for the right timing.
Over the weekend, my little boy ended up in hospital. It came out of nowhere — one minute we were home and fine, the next I was running on instinct, grabbing what I could, holding him close, hoping the drive would be quick and the doctors would be kind.
It’s funny how your body just knows what to do in those moments. The mother in you takes over before you even have time to think. There’s no space for fear or tiredness. You move, you hold, you speak gently when your insides are screaming. You become calm because they need you to be.
I didn’t sleep that night — not properly. My mind stayed alert to every sound, every breath, every small movement beside me. But I didn’t notice how tired I was. My body went into that strange, powerful mode that only mothers seem to have — the one that runs on something deeper than rest.
And then, when he was finally okay, when the hospital smell faded from our clothes and we were home again — I crashed. Hard. My body ached, my head throbbed, and suddenly I could feel every ounce of energy I’d borrowed from somewhere deep inside myself.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How we don’t let ourselves feel it until it’s over. The worry, the exhaustion, the pain — it waits until our child is safe before it settles into us.
That’s what motherhood is, though. It’s strength disguised as survival. It’s doing what needs done even when your bones are begging for rest. It’s knowing that love can carry you through the longest nights — and that when the morning finally comes, you’ll probably fall apart a little.
And that’s okay.
Because sometimes falling apart is just your body’s way of saying, you did it.
You held it together until it was safe to let go.
So here I am — tired, grateful, and a little tender around the edges. My boy is okay. I’m okay. And even though I wouldn’t wish for nights like that, I’m reminded again of what mothers do without thinking.
We show up.
We run.
We remember what matters when everything else fades.
And once it’s all calm again, we finally breathe — and feel — and rest.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever had one of those nights, or days, or weeks — where you pushed past what you thought you could handle — I see you.
You did what needed to be done.
You’ll crash later, and that’s okay too.
Here’s to the mothers who run first and feel later.
To the strength we don’t plan for, and the softness that always follows.
Until next time,
Lia
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