We’re somewhere around the one-month mark now.
This weekend, we took our first proper day out as a little family unit. Adam, Matilda’s dad, came to visit, and we decided to head out to Jodrell Bank.
There’s something fitting about spending the day under a giant radio telescope when the last few weeks have felt like tuning into a completely new frequency. Everything’s been white noise, sudden signals, sleepless static—and now, slowly, we’re picking up moments of clarity. Like this one.
She’s three weeks old today.
It’s strange how much and how little that feels like, all at once. Time right now is fluid. The hours between midnight and morning blur into a single stretch of half-sleep and whispered promises that “we’ve got you.” Sunlight is just something that leaks through the blinds while we rock her, feed her, change her, start again.
Tomorrow, we go home.
That sentence feels almost surreal after the last week. A week of monitors and wires, of folding hospital blankets into makeshift pillows, of learning how to read expressions behind masks. A week of waiting rooms, alarms that made my heart skip, and tiny victories that meant everything.
Five days.
That’s how long we had before everything changed again.
Today, my daughter was born.
That sentence alone feels like it should come with an instruction manual, a warning label, and maybe a second cup of coffee. But no manual showed up. No voiceover. Just her, tiny and new, and me, standing at the beginning of something I can’t fully understand yet.
