Becoming Her Mom: Learning About Alma

When Alma turned one, I wanted to write her a letter, something she could open on her 18th birthday as a memory of our time together. It sounded simple enough, but I had no idea how to capture it all. 

Adding to the pressure, when I was pregnant, I’d already written her a little book (one prompt a day, answering the highs. the lows. the trauma. the joy. (That book, too, was meant for her 18th birthday.)

And if you know me, you know I talk a lot, so chances are, Alma will have heard every story long before then. But I wrote it anyway, because I needed her to know, deep in her bones….

to know: I worried about having her. I worried about being enough for her. And I cared, with everything in me.

When she arrived, I’ll be honest, I had hoped for a boy.

Oh yes, she knows that. (Seen this^)

But the moment she came out looking exactly like me, I was sold.

But then… we didn’t bond.

She had so many issues I couldn’t solve. Her constant tears brought me to tears daily. Matt stepped in to feed her, to soothe her, to be the one she reached for. And quickly, he became her favorite. I was jealous. I wanted to be her safe place. But I kept stepping back, because the PPD clouds were heavy. I felt like less of a mother.

My people kept reminding me, “It’s just a phase,” “You’re a great mom,” “You cry because you care.” And I clung to those words, but I couldn’t convince myself they were true.

Still, I showed up every day, trying to find that missing connection.

Around six months in, we finally got answers: silent reflux. A few medications later, and I had a very different experience. Even the doctor said, “She’s a much more pleasant baby.”

And slowly… I started becoming her mother in the way I always hoped I could.

We were work-from-home parents, and we managed our chaos by splitting the day: morning shifts, afternoon shifts, tag-teaming it all. It was messy, sure, but also such a gift: we got to be there. For every milestone, every meltdown, every magical little moment. I know how lucky I am to have had that time with Alma.

When Max came along and my job asked me to return to the office, I left. Because somewhere along the way, I realized, Mom had become my identity before any title or paycheck. It wasn’t always easy, but it felt right.

One of the hardest parts of being home, though, was the lack of a measuring stick. I had no classroom, no other babies around, no circle time or art projects to compare to. Was I doing it right? Was she ahead? Behind? Bluey’s Baby Race sums it up well, there’s this ache of wondering, and no one tells you if you’re even on the right course.

Still, I soaked in our days together. I loved the moments.

But again I worried.

I’d hear a story about another child’s milestones and silently ask, Is Alma there yet? And then… her language clicked. And I mean CLICKED. Talk to her now, she’s four going on fourteen. Her memory, her clarity, her vocabulary, they astound me.

It took me a long time to take credit. I still catch myself saying, I don’t know how she got like this. But deep down, I do.

Because she was with me.

All day, every day.
I talked to her like she mattered, because she did.
I narrated my life, I let her in. I let her try things. I let her fail. I didn’t just say no, I explained why.

I was real with her. And she got it. Which was magical… but also had its oh no moments.

Because once Alma started grasping everything, I found myself asking: How do I explain what’s going on with me?

How do I help her understand why some days felt heavier than others?

And that’s when Mom’s Cloud was born.

Now, Alma is thriving in all the best and wildest ways. She’s writing her own lines, standing her ground, questioning her world. She’s independent. She’s fierce. She’s free.

She’s the version of me I wish I had the confidence to be, before self-doubt and mental health struggles clouded my own view.

And now, my hope is to keep showing up, to grow with her, to nurture her spirit, and to keep telling the truth.

And this image, it makes me cry. Because it’s her.

It’s Alma in all her strong-willed, vibrant glory.

Her bold choice of colors, her outfit, her earrings, each piece something she chose, something she stood for.

It’s her joy in seeing herself.
Not the version I shaped, or tried to fix, or worried over. Just her, fully, freely herself.

And in this photo, I see all the days we worked through to get here. I see the cloud. I see the light. I see her.