There’s No End To Being Postpartum.

There’s No End To Being Postpartum.

The doctors may say a mother recovers from birth in a matter of months.

She can return to housework and to exercise and to physical intimacy six weeks later.

She can watch her tummy shrink and notice her energy return and feel more like herself with more rest and predictable routine.

But, she’s still postpartum.

My youngest is 15 months old, and I wear compression socks for varicose veins.

I’m still postpartum.

My 7-year-old calls my tummy “squishy,” and I can’t hide the stretch marks on my skin. I’m still postpartum.

I struggle with hormonal swings, a temper and the kind of anxiety that made me message two doctors and a nurse friend today.

I’m still postpartum.

Because it doesn’t matter how long it’s been since we’ve carried a child, we’ve all been changed in a way that can’t be undone.

We’ve all committed to giving some of our old selves away and to take on the new identity that motherhood makes.

And it’s never an excuse. But evidence of a lifelong tug at the heart.

To carry the hope and to carry the heartache.

To protect.

To comfort.

To give things up

To breathe deep.

To trust.

To labor.

To push on.

And we’ll push on with all we’ve got for the rest of our days.

Because there’s no calendar date or finish line that returns anything to how it was once before. The extraordinary transformation to “mama” proves it.

And she still deserves respect and rest and so much grace.

Because there’s just no end to being postpartum.