Eight Months After the Baby, I Decided to Save Myself First

She arrived with two blue shadows under her eyes, laughing that she hadn't slept a whole night in eight months. The baby was with the nanny and her mother-in-law in shifts; on the drive over, she sat in the parking lot for ten minutes before getting out — not hesitating. Just: it had been so long since she was alone that even quiet felt like luxury.

The bath water ran softly, and as the floral scent rose around her she let out one long breath — and then the tears came. She apologised. The therapist laid a warm towel across her shoulders and said: tears don't need apologising for here. Warmth pressed into the back of her neck — that feeling of being looked after was something she hadn't had once since the birth. Everyone held the baby. Nobody had held her.

The body care moved slowly, warm palms working along her rigid shoulders and back. She said she had spent half a year like a string pulled permanently taut, even her smiles held up by effort. Before the core passage the therapist checked in twice, gently. She nodded, and added: slowly. Then she slept for twenty minutes — evenly, her forehead smooth.

Afterwards she sat in the rest area for a long time and finished a whole cup of something hot before she left. Later she texted: on the drive home she rolled the window down, let the evening air touch her face, and suddenly remembered — she wasn't only someone's mother. She was herself first.

She comes monthly now, a rule she set for herself: save yourself first, and only then will you have the strength to love everybody else.

← At 1 A.M., the Studio Keeps One Lamp On · At Thirty-Five, I Wanted to Meet My Body Again →