30 Things I’ve Learned After 30 Weeks of Being a Mom

A list of small truths, sacred lessons, and the kind of love that changes everything

It’s been 30 weeks…

Thirty weeks of night feeds and nap battles.

Of mashed potatoes, tiny socks, and lullabies sung half-asleep.

Thirty weeks of watching Theo grow — and growing right alongside him.

When I first became a mother, I thought the biggest shift would be external. The diapers. The routines. The “stuff.”

But what’s changed the most?

Me.

Motherhood softened me. Stretched me. Shattered every rule I thought I needed and gently handed me something better: the wisdom that comes from being in it.

So here it is — not a guide, not advice. Just a list.

Of things I’ve learned, things I’m still learning, and things I never want to forget.

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30 Things I’ve Learned After 30 Weeks of Being a Mom

1. A baby’s smile really can reset your entire day.

2. There’s no such thing as just one load of laundry.

3. The days are long…and the nights are longer.

4. Baby socks vanish faster than hope during witching hour.

5. It’s possible to love someone so much it aches — in the best way.

6. Sleep is sacred. So is coffee.

7. You can function (somewhat) on 4 hours of sleep.

8. You’ll Google things you never thought you’d Google.

9. “Is this normal?” becomes a daily phrase.

10. The sound of baby giggles is actual therapy.

11. Your body is still healing — even if no one says it.

12. Burp cloths are never where you need them.

13. Time is a thief. Photos are a lifeline.

14. Screen time rules hit differently when your coffee is cold.

15. Motherhood is messy, magical, and wildly humbling.

16. You’ll cry over the sweetest things. And the weirdest. Sometimes they go hand in hand.

17. Diapers come with a learning curve. So do your emotions.

18. It’s not your job to make the world more comfortable — it’s to make your child feel seen and celebrated.

19. Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s wisdom.

20. Comparison steals joy — especially at 2 a.m.

21. Every milestone is a miracle (even the ones no one claps for).

22. There’s strength in softness.

23. Nothing prepares you for the weight of love you’ll carry.

24. You can’t control how others look at him — but you can teach him to look at himself with pride.

25. The world has a long way to go in how it responds to difference — but my son is already teaching it how.

26. Curiosity is beautiful. Shame is taught. Let’s choose the first. Always.

27. My child’s limb difference is not a limitation — it’s a part of his wholeness.

28. You are the expert on your baby. Trust that.

29. You’re learning, too. Every day.

30. Love is the lesson. Always.

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Before I move on, I want to hold this moment — to honour the stretch, the softness, the slow unfolding of becoming his mother.

So here’s a poem for these past thirty weeks: for the tiny socks, the first smiles, the rolling and babbling, the nights that blurred into days.

For the fruit-sized countdowns that turned into weekly milestones.

For the love that changed everything.

This is for Theo. And for the mother I’ve grown into.

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Thirty Weeks With You
and I’d do it all again

I used to count weeks in fruit and veggie sizes— a blueberry, a plum, a sweet potato.
Little markers of the life I carried
before I ever saw your face.

Now I count in milestones:
a roll, a reach, a squeal,
your first time crawling toward the dog
like the world was already yours to chase.

Those early days were soft and sharp—
a blur of half-slept nights and slow mornings.
Milk-drunk sighs.
Lullabies I barely remembered singing.
The ache in my arms matched only
by the fullness in my chest.

And me?
I’ve grown, too.
Not in inches,
but in all the ways that matter—
in patience, in presence,
in knowing that love doesn’t ask for perfection,
just showing up.

You’ve taught me to be still
and to cheer for the tiniest things.
To meet wonder with wonder.
To celebrate every inch of you—
not despite, but because.

Thirty weeks ago, I met you.
And somehow, in meeting you,
I met myself, too.

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So, What Would’ve I Told Her Back Then

If I could sit with the me from 30 weeks ago — the one gripping the bassinet edge, eyes burning with tears and wonder — I’d whisper:

You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just doing something brand new.

I’d tell her that love would come in waves, sometimes soft, sometimes crashing. That healing would take time — not just physically, but in ways she couldn’t name yet.

I’d remind her that she doesn’t need to have all the answers. That showing up, again and again, heart open and arms tired, is more than enough.

And I’d tell her the truth she won’t find in a baby book:

You’re going to grow, too. You already are.

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To the Moms Reading This…

If you’re reading this in the quiet of a nap, the chaos of a car ride, or at 2 a.m. under the glow of a feeding light — I want you to know:

You are not alone in the learning. The longing. The love.

However your journey looks — whether it came with NICU stays or smooth landings, unexpected diagnoses or quiet relief — you belong here.

There is no one way to mother. But every way is worthy. And you, dear friend, are doing far more beautifully than you think.

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If I could sum it all up?

It’s this:

Nothing about motherhood has gone exactly to plan — and still, it’s more sacred than I ever imagined.

I’ve traded “should’s” for slow mornings.

“I’ll never” for “I’m learning.”

Perfect for present.

And somehow, in the mess, I found more joy than I knew was possible.

Here’s to the next 30 weeks — and every version of ourselves we’ll meet along the way.

With love and lots of learning,

Anna

💌 Thank you for reading.

If this resonated with you—or if someone in your life could use these words—please feel free to share it with them. You never know who might need the reminder.

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