The Saving Grace of Friendship in Early Motherhood

I don’t remember everything about those early days of motherhood—but I do remember the ache in my forearms, the smell of breast milk on every shirt I owned, and the desperate craving for adult conversation that didn’t revolve around sleep schedules or nipple shields.

What I didn’t know at the time—what no baby book or prenatal class could prepare me for—was how essential the village would be. Not just the “Let’s get coffee sometime” kind of friends—but the “I see your crazy eyes and I’m on my way with snacks” kind. The kind who’d let themselves in without knocking and hand you a baby wipe before you even knew you needed it.

It was a whole ecosystem of women:

some I saw every week, some I barely knew—but we had each other in this unspoken, feral sisterhood. Our bodies, slumped together on couches with burp cloths tossed like confetti, were like little islands of shared humanity. We didn’t always talk about the hard stuff directly. Sometimes we just sat. Or cried. Or passed each other babies like hot potatoes.

We knew the signs. The “barely holding it together” look in someone’s eyes was enough to trigger action. A few text messages later and someone was on her way with a Ziploc bag of PB&Js, crusts cut off, because that’s what the toddler liked best. No fanfare. Just: I’ve got you.

Sometimes it was me doing the dropping off. Other times, I’d find myself melting down, and a familiar car would pull into my driveway. Out would come our communal, well-worn copy of People magazine or Southern Living (complete with recipe adaptations scribbled in the margins) and a Rubbermaid container of the last third of last night’s birthday cake.
That was how we did it. The magazines, the cake, the open-door policy. Not sure how the younger moms are doing it now—but I hope they’ve found their version of this very thing. Because this? This was medicine.

We passed the baton back and forth, not always gracefully, but always with so much love. Sometimes we had it. Sometimes we needed someone else to have it. And somehow, we always made sure someone did.

My body remembers.

Not just the exhaustion and the adrenaline, but the way my shoulders softened when I was with people who got it. The way my breath came easier. The way laughter—real, deep-belly laughter—made the fog lift, even just a little.
My body remembers the smell of someone else's laundry soap after she washed the onesie I’d needed to borrow in a pinch. I remember the weight of a baby not my own, sleeping on my chest. I remember our pool rule: obey the moms you know. Sure, you can eat their snacks—but not strangers’ snacks.

And I remember someone’s kid—just two months older than mine—who used to do the thing that was currently making me crazy. Who no longer did it. Who had moved on. Who had survived that part. It was the smallest thing, but it was hope.

Maybe I could survive this part too.

We held the light for each other. A tiny lantern passed back and forth, day after day. Keep going, keep going. You’re not alone.

I’m not sure I would’ve made it through without that village. Those women were my mirrors, my lifelines, my witnesses. Our friendship wasn’t about giving each other advice—it was about offering each other presence. Back then, it wasn’t about fixing anything. It was about not being alone.

And honestly? That still feels like the deepest kind of medicine.

So this is a love note and a call:
To the moms in the thick of it.
To the ones a little further along.
To the ones with toddlers, teens, or grown-up kids.
Let’s keep gathering. Keep opening our doors. Keep holding the light for each other.

You don’t have to be the one who has it all together. Just be the one who shows up.

We’ll pass the cake.
We’ll pass the baby.
We’ll pass the light.

And if you’re craving a place to really land—to tell your story, to be heard, to process all the complexity of this wild role—I’d love to invite you to The Nuance of Motherhood, my 8-week process group for moms.

Is it the only way? No.
Is it a way? Yes.
A way to gather, share, and be supported in this journey. It’s a space for real talk, tender truth, and meaningful connection, held by a trained therapist (that’s me) who gets it.

Come gather with us.
Come bring your mess and your wisdom.
Let’s hold the light for each other.

Keep going, keep going. You’re not alone.