What my Daughter's First Year Taught Me

Whew,

It's been a year full of wonderful highs and days that felt like a battlefield.

My daughter is turning one, and she is adorable and perfect in our eyes. We love her, and she has brought so much joy into our lives. But as I have reflected on the past year, it fits the theme of calm and chaos for this blog.

I didn't have postpartum depression with my first son, and I don’t think I experienced it with my daughter, but there were moments when I didn’t know if I would ever get a full night’s rest again or find moments to laugh. I felt a diminishing of hope at times, as though we’d always be stuck in survival mode. I would call my family, sometimes just feeling like I couldn’t find anything to look forward to. They would often remind me that I was in the hardest stage and that things would eventually look different. My kids would grow, and the tantrums would decrease. I’d get more breaks, and I wouldn’t have to physically separate my kids as often. The validation and the simple act of listening helped me get through those teary moments—and then I would try to get through the day.

I learned that it takes a village to raise a family. Sometimes, it took a village just to help me feel like I could do it. It was a tough year full of adjustments—not just with our growing family but also with our life circumstances.

To give some context: I was pregnant with my second child, my daughter, and everything seemed to be going relatively well. I had my baby shower, and we were as ready as you could be—without a hospital bag packed. There were some things we couldn’t control regarding my husband's work and the lack of paternity leave, but we accepted that he might only be able to take a week off.

We went to church one Sunday, and I got a text from a friend that there was a fire in our apartment complex building—by the pool, on the same floor we lived on. We went to check on it, and luckily, it wasn’t our apartment, but it was just a few doors down. The hallway was full of smoke, and it wasn’t a healthy place to stay.
(Side note: it was one of my son's favorite days. What toddler doesn’t love six fire trucks with ladders up, water blasting everywhere? We still talk about it whenever we see a fire truck.)
We didn’t have access to our apartment for a while that day and didn’t know when we could go back in to get our things. Eventually, we were able to, and we stayed with family in the meantime.

It was already stressful dealing with my husband’s work uncertainty, and now we also had to figure out where we could live before the baby arrived. I was 37 weeks pregnant, and suddenly, I didn’t know where we could safely stay. I started to feel very sick—I couldn’t hold down food and had trouble sleeping. I was trying to stay calm. My mom came to help watch my son, and then I started having what I thought were Braxton Hicks contractions. We went to my regular OB appointment, and my blood pressure was very high. I was in labor. We went to the hospital, and my daughter was born three weeks early. She was healthy and beautiful. All was well—except our apartment complex had smoky hallways, huge air filters blasting, and no hot water.

I remember in the hospital, they asked if I felt safe in my home when my husband was away. I said yes—in my marriage and family—but I didn’t feel safe in our apartment. They told me, "That’s something we don’t usually consider—environmental safety."

That was the start of my daughter’s life. The story gets more chaotic with eye infections and colds that had us at the doctor monitoring symptoms—all within her first three weeks. We have one picture of her at two weeks old with pink eye, and it looks awful. My mama heart cried watching my newborn with a cold and pus all over her eye. At one point, we were monitoring her heart rate because she was so congested. I prayed we wouldn’t need to go to the ER. In the end, we were okay—but the uncertainty of our living situation remained. There was smoke damage, no hot water, and that giant air filter blasting 24/7.

Bringing a baby into the world is already hard—with postpartum healing, breastfeeding, sleep deprivation, etc. I’m not sure why we had to add an apartment fire into the mix.

I’m not writing this as a sob story—but because writing and sharing are therapeutic for me. I wonder, when my daughter is older, how she’ll think of her birth story. She is so calm, happy, and makes us laugh—the opposite of her beginning.

Fast forward: I’m writing this in our apartment complex, with the hallway still looking like a construction site. It still looks like a fire just happened. But we’re happy and healthy. My kids have grown and love each other. Yes, I still have to separate them sometimes, but I’m sure every parent would say that’s normal.

What I’ve learned most this year is how to apply grace to myself, how to accept help, and how to be more resilient.

I tend to have somewhat perfectionist expectations of myself, which is frustrating when I’m in survival mode. I know I’m a capable person and want to meet my goals. But this year, I often got frustrated that “my best” looked like helping the kids with breakfast and then crashing on the couch during nap time while my toddler watched TV. The mom guilt was strong—I beat myself up more than I needed to.

I felt proud of myself on the days I got the kids out to the park. A bonus if I managed to shower. On days I barely slept and felt like a zombie, I felt like I was failing my kids.

I mentioned in a previous post that I started writing down my “wins” in a journal. That helped me give myself grace. It was my New Year’s resolution because I felt like I was constantly drowning. I could catch a breath, but then there’d be another night full of toddler tears or nursing sessions. When I first started, my wins were small—like, “I made dinner and the kids ate it,” or “I showered,” or “I watched my son hug my daughter.”

As I kept reflecting at night, I started to recognize and celebrate those wins. I realized I was doing well, and I wasn’t failing my kids. Maybe I wasn’t the mom on Instagram doing something I aspired to just because I thought that’s what a “good mom” did. I deleted Instagram for two weeks. I tried to stop comparing myself. Afterward, my inner dialogue became kinder. I stopped giving myself constant performance evaluations based on unrealistic standards. That was a game-changer. I was no longer failing—because I had stopped grading myself.

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Here are some things I’ve learned this year:

• There are no universal performance standards. You create your own, often based on what you think is expected. Evaluate what’s realistic, and let go of what’s not needed.

• Connection is vital. You are not meant to struggle alone. Make the call. Say, “I’m not okay.” Let others in.

• Needing help doesn’t mean you’re incapable. Sometimes we’re carrying too much, and it’s okay to let someone else carry part of the load.

• Re-evaluate your relationship with social media. I still follow mom and mental health accounts, but I ask myself: Am I comparing my worth to their lifestyle? Am I changing my expectations because of someone else’s posts? Be mindful of your time and intentions on social media. I want to keep it—but only if it doesn’t cost me my peace.

• Self-care is essential. It looks different in different seasons. Whether it’s the gym, journaling, or a morning walk, find what fills you up so you can show up as your best self.

• Acknowledge the hard things. When you make it through a difficult season, say to yourself, “I did it.” Give yourself credit for enduring, and thank those who carried you. Resilience is a group effort.

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I now look back at the farmers market tonight and see my kids interact. My son comforts my daughter when she cries. We eat good food from the food trucks, and I wish I could go back and tell myself a year ago: You’ll get here.
You’ll sleep again.
Your kids will laugh together.
Your apartment will be safe.
You’ll have job security.
All of this is temporary, and you’ll come out stronger in the end.