Pure Nest Essentials

I knew it would happen eventually. But I wasn’t ready. The first fever crept in slowly—warm forehead, fussier-than-usual cries, that eerie, glazed look in his eyes. My stomach dropped. I was calm for all of five minutes before the panic set in. What if it’s something serious? What if I miss a sign? What if he needs to go to the hospital? I took his temperature a dozen times, each one confirming the obvious. I hovered. I held him for hours, pressing my cheek against his hot skin, wishing I could take the fever myself. I called the pediatrician and wrote everything down like I was taking notes for a final exam. Sleep? Forget it. I spent the night half-awake, checking on him every hour, watching his chest rise and fall, praying for morning to come. It was awful. And yet—there was something in those long, feverish days that deepened my bond with him. He needed me in a way he hadn’t before. Not just for food or comfort, but for presence. For stability. For love. And somehow, I rose to meet it. He got better, of course. And I’ll never forget the moment his little laugh came back, or how he perked up and reached for a toy like nothing had ever happened. But I had changed. I came out of it more confident, more intuitive, more in tune with my baby’s needs. Parenthood is full of firsts—some beautiful, some terrifying. But every time we walk through one, we come out the other side a little braver. So if you’re in the thick of it, thermometer in one hand and tears in your eyes, you are not alone. You are not doing it wrong. You are exactly who your baby needs. You’ve got this.

Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back. Not just because I’m makeup-free, hair in a messy bun, wearing a shirt with a suspicious milk stain. But because I feel different. Before I became a parent, I was spontaneous. I could go for late-night drives just because. I could binge-watch an entire show, sleep in on Saturdays, or take a long bath without listening for a baby monitor. I miss that version of me—sometimes more than I want to admit. I miss feeling light and untethered. I miss fitting into my old jeans. I miss the way I used to walk into a room and not immediately scan it for choking hazards. But here’s the thing I’m learning: it’s okay to grieve the life you had before. It doesn’t mean you love your child any less. It just means that something really big happened—and that changed everything. Including you. The version of me that used to chase dreams and take long naps? She’s still here. A little quieter, maybe. A little more tired. But also… deeper. Stronger. Softer in all the best ways. Now I cry over baby milestones. I’ve learned to find joy in the tiniest moments—like when my child says “mama” with that pure love in their eyes. And slowly, I’m starting to believe that this new version of me? She’s kind of amazing, too. So if you’re missing your “before” self, I see you. You’re allowed to miss her. You’re allowed to mourn what’s changed. But I promise—who you’re becoming is just as beautiful. Maybe even more so

It was just a sandwich.Nothing fancy—just two slices of bread, a smear of peanut butter, and a sad banana I found at the back of the fruit bowl. But I’d been looking forward to it all morning. It was going to be my little break, my one uninterrupted moment of peace. But of course, it didn’t go that way. The baby started crying just as I sat down. The toddler spilled her juice all over the floor. The dog threw up on the rug (seriously, why?). And in the chaos of it all, I dropped the sandwich. Peanut butter side down, naturally. Right onto the floor. And I just stood there and cried. Not a graceful, misty-eyed movie cry. No. This was a full-on, snotty, heaving, hands-on-the-counter kind of meltdown. Because it wasn’t really about the sandwich, was it? It was about being touched-out and sleep-deprived. About doing a hundred invisible things every day and still feeling like I was falling short. It was about pouring every ounce of energy into these little people and realizing I hadn’t eaten or peed or sat down in hours. That sandwich was just the final straw. But here’s what I’ve learned in the time since: crying over a sandwich doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re carrying so much—the physical work, the emotional load, the mental gymnastics of keeping it all together. And sometimes, it all needs to leak out. So if you’ve ever cried over a sandwich—or a spilled coffee or a forgotten load of laundry—you’re not alone. We’re not losing it. We’re just human. Tender, stretched-thin, deeply loving humans trying our best. And maybe next time, I’ll eat my sandwich standing over the sink. But I’ll eat it with grace. And maybe a side of dark chocolate. Because honestly? We deserve that.