I know you want to hold onto the beautiful moments, but hold onto the time you couldn't string a sentence together, when words you've always used would catch in your throat, when your eyes were always filtered with tired, and when the inner parts of you went to seed.
Hold on to those moments too.
I know you want to keep the photos where everyone's looking with synchronized smiles.
But keep the ones you messaged your husband during his work day, with the shadows, the mess, the human, the real life where everyone joins you on the toilet. The nappies and a singlet, the dressing gown, the exhausted smiles, the leggings and the stains on your top.
Keep those photos too.
I know you want to tell the story about when you first locked yes, that new recipe, the best thing you've ever done. But tell the story of the spilt milk, the tears at night, how your husband's touch felt like another need rather than a loving gesture - for much longer than you thought it would.
How you sat outside for a minute to take a break because the baby's crying made your breath shallow like precise knock to the elbow.
Tell those stories too.
Look for the birth in every truth,
how it shapes you,
how it makes the beauty dance a little more.
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