Womenhood in our 20s xox

Guilt vs love

I don’t think anyone talks enough about what it feels like to become a mum… and not feel like one.

How do you bond with your baby when you can’t hold them?

How do you love someone so deeply when you’re not the one waking up with them at night, not the one feeding them, not the one taking them home?

I wanted to feel tired because you kept me awake.
I wanted to feel needed.
I wanted to feel responsible for you.

But instead, I leave you every day.
Every night.

And I leave you with strangers.

And that thought alone brings a kind of guilt I can’t even explain.

This didn’t just happen the day you were born early.
It’s happening every single day.

Every day I walk out of that hospital without you.
Every day I try to understand what kind of mother I am in this situation.

Because I don’t feel like one.

While I was pregnant, I used to imagine everything.

Your room.
Your cot.
What theme I’d choose.
What life would look like when you got here.

Now… I don’t think that far ahead anymore.

I can’t.

Everything feels too uncertain.

Instead of dreaming about your future, I’ve had to detach from it—just to protect myself.

Now all I think about is today.
Right now.
This moment.

And even that feels fragile.

There’s a fear that never really leaves.

The fear of not knowing what your future looks like.
The fear of possible complications.
The fear of things I was never prepared to even think about.

And then there’s the loneliness.

I had a strong circle before all of this.
But how do you explain something like this to people who’ve never experienced it?

You can try…
But they won’t really understand.

Because this isn’t common.
This isn’t something people know how to respond to.

So you stay quiet.

And you carry it on your own.

I look at the world differently now.

I’ll be doing something normal, like a quick trip to Tesco,
and I’ll see kids running around…

And I find myself looking at their parents and thinking—

they’re so lucky.

Lucky to have their child with them.
Lucky to know what their life looks like.
Lucky to have something I can’t even picture right now.

And then I question myself.

Do I even look like a mum?

I don’t have the responsibilities of one.
I don’t have my baby at home.
I don’t live the life I thought I would.

I only just told close family about you.

I had a whole gender reveal planned.

And four days before it… you came.

I wasn’t ready to find out like that.

All the excitement of pregnancy—gone.
All the moments I imagined—gone.

It feels like something was taken from both of us.

From me… and from you.

And sometimes I sit there and wonder—

Who do I even blame?

Myself?
The midwives?
God?
The world?

Or everything at once?

I was even scared to look at you at first.

You were so small.
So fragile.
Your skin so pink it didn’t feel real.

No one should have to see their baby like that.

Not that early.

But you’re here.

And somehow, through all of this confusion, fear, guilt, and distance…

I still love you.

Even if I don’t always know how to show it yet.

Maybe that’s what no one tells you—

Love doesn’t always look the way you expect it to.

Sometimes it looks like sitting beside an incubator.
Sometimes it looks like leaving the hospital in tears.
Sometimes it looks like guilt.

But it’s still love.

And maybe… we’re still learning each other.