I Needed to Meet You First

“One day, I’ll probably write about pregnancy and postpartum honestly. But this piece is about him.”

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Dear gentle reader,

For the first time in a very long time, I wanted to keep something entirely to myself. This little human growing inside of me felt too personal, too precious to share with the world immediately. I wanted to enjoy him quietly before the noise, before the attention, before everyone else got to know him too.

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This piece took many forms before finally becoming this one.

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This musing is a bit for myself, a bit for Asher, and a bit for you too, my dear reader. I am trying, somewhere in writing this, to process what the last twelve months have meant to me.

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It has been almost a year since I first met this young man, twelve weeks later, y’all get to meet him.

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Meet Asher

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He arrived at his own time on a quiet winter morning — quiet because it was just me and his father in the room.

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Asher was born on the 21st of February, 2026. I was in my 38th week of gestation when we found out he was ready to come meet us. I was terrified because I hadn’t packed a hospital bag yet and barely had anything sorted. But at the same time, I was ready to meet this human I had spent nine months already knowing in a different way.

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He arrived with such calm. He only cried for a few seconds — almost like a cool little introduction. “Hey people, I am here.” That must’ve been what he was thinking. I held him on my chest and suddenly all the pain, panic, and horror melted away. He was perfect. And somehow, worth every second of it.

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He is calm, cheerful, pure, and very observant. But my favorite thing about him is the faces he makes. No matter how tired, stressed, or sad I feel, seeing those tiny expressions cracks something open in me.

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He does not know it yet, but sometimes I ride on his laughter just to laugh too.

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Three Months With You

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Every other Saturday morning, a sudden calm washes over me. Not entirely calm though — also gratitude, also memory.

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Every Saturday, I am transported back to that hospital room — tied to machines, laboring with David by my side, wondering if I would make it through the pain. Looking back now, it all feels blurry and almost unexplainable. But in that moment, it was the hardest thing I had ever done.

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Dear son,

I thought I’d write this when you were born. But it turns out I needed to meet you first. It’s been three months now — long enough for the days to blur together, but also long enough for you to begin to feel like yourself. You are still changing every day, but already there are things that are unmistakably you.

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The way you stare into my eyes sometimes feels like whispers of: “Hey mama, I love you and I am here.” And somehow, that alone gives me strength to fight another day. The way your tiny hand rubs my back or stomach while feeding. The way you hold onto my fingers so softly, almost like you know breastfeeding hurts sometimes and you are trying to comfort me through it.

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I love the face you make when you need to poop or fart. It reminds me so much of my paternal grandmother, your great-grandmother, Benedith Odika. I love when I try to lay you down to sleep and you immediately curl yourself back into the fetal position, trusting fully that you will never fall from my arms.

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Child, you do not like bright lights at all — just like me. We both love dim spaces. The way you squeeze your toes is exactly like your father. Your sneezes and yawns are his too.

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Before now, you were one big secret I wanted to keep from everyone. But slowly, you made your presence known. And now that you are here, I never miss a chance to say I am your mum.

Because now I know you. You are no longer an idea or a dream or a kick in my stomach. You are a whole personality.

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Becoming Your Mother

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Before you arrived, there was a long season of becoming.

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And finally… I am a mom.

If you are wondering how I am doing — here goes nothing. I am a new mum. I eat multiple times a day, have milk stains on my clothes, barely sleep, and hardly do “Cynthia things” anymore. But strangely, now more than ever, I feel present in my own life. Whenever the nights feel too short or the days feel too hard, I remind myself that I am strong because only I could have birthed Asher.

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This season has taught me to let go of control and let God. Before now, I was always prepared for everything. I would read, watch videos, ask questions, and try to stay ten steps ahead. Now? I just wake up and deal with what is in front of me.

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I remember the first night after we returned to our hospital room. I had finally laid down to rest while Asher slept in his tiny bed beside me. Then suddenly, he started crying. I froze. I did not know what to do, so I pressed the bell for the nurse. And in the few minutes before she came in, I started crying too.

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When she arrived, she asked gently, “What’s wrong?” And I replied: “He started crying and I don’t know what to do.” She smiled, picked him up, then handed him back to me and said: “When he cries, feed him, change his diaper, hold him to your chest, walk around, sing, dance. Right now, all he needs is his mum.”

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I think back to that moment now and laugh.Because that was the first time I realized I didn’t need to know everything to be his mother. But at the time, I was terrified. Truly terrified. I thought I couldn’t do it.

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And maybe that is what motherhood is teaching me most.

To slow down.
To soften.
To be patient.

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As Asher’s mother, I move through the world differently now — more tenderly, more carefully. My siblings say he has my button, and honestly, they might be right. I appreciate my body more these days too. It has carried me through different versions of myself, stretched into unfamiliar shapes, and somehow continues to carry me through this season.

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The moment I realized all the group chats I cared about had become mum groups and baby conversations, I knew life had shifted permanently. And truthfully, I am still terrified sometimes. But now, when he cries, I no longer panic. I hold him close. Sometimes I sing. Sometimes I walk around the room half asleep. Sometimes we simply sit together in silence.

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And in those quiet moments — usually in dim lighting because neither of us likes bright lights anyway — I realize something:

maybe I have been becoming his mother all along.

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I wonder when I will sleep through the night again. Or leave the house without thinking about feeding schedules, pumping, leaking milk, or whether my child will suddenly need me. But even in the exhaustion, there is joy here too.

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The kind of joy that sits quietly in dimly lit rooms on Saturday mornings.

The kind that looks like a milk-stained shirt, tired eyes, and a baby asleep on my chest.

And somehow, this is everything.

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