We’re somewhere around the one-month mark now.
I’ve stopped trying to track exact days because time has warped into this soft, elastic thing. Nights are punctuated by tiny cries. Days are stitched together by naps, coffee, feeding sessions, and moments where the panic either spikes or softens just enough to function.
Right now, I’m trying to rebuild some kind of routine. Not a schedule because that ship sailed weeks ago. A rhythm. Something repeatable. Even if it’s messy.
It’s hard.
I’m operating on scraps of sleep. I have a full-body vigilance I didn’t ask for. My mind runs worst-case scenarios on loop. What if I fall asleep while holding her? What if I miss a sign? What if something happens while I’m trying to write, or shower, or breathe?
The panic attacks aren’t every hour anymore, but they’re close enough that I know their arrival times. My body has its own threat-detection system now, and it keeps ringing false alarms.
And on top of all that: I’m job hunting. Trying to be productive. Trying to appear calm and employable and articulate in emails while half my brain is still in the NICU, watching a monitor. It’s a bizarre dual existence, writing resumes with one hand and opening a bottle of Cow & Gate with the other. Faking momentum while pleading for rest.
The truth is: routine isn’t coming back in the way it used to be. At least not yet. And that’s okay. The point right now isn’t to regain control, it’s to keep moving. Even if it’s slow. Even if the rhythm is off. Even if the most I can do in a day is write half a paragraph and hold her through a nap.
This isn’t failure. It’s survival in a new language.
Some days, routine looks like:
- Eating real food before 3 p.m.
- Sending one job application
- Making it through a feed without spiraling
And honestly? That’s enough.
We’re still standing. She’s still growing. I’m still here. The shape of life is shifting, but it hasn’t broken.
So for now, I’ll keep trying to sketch the outline of something stable. One line at a time. One hour at a time. Until the rhythm returns.
Or until I stop needing it to.