Beginning Again, Again.

The Postpartum Chair I Tried to Get Rid Of

There’s something humbling about realizing you don’t get to outrun certain chapters of your life. You can shove them in closets, donate the furniture, stop talking about them, but eventually they show back up.

For me, it was in the form of a white rocking chair I thought I was done with.

Two and a half years ago, I had a baby. Shortly after, heart failure. Which still feels surreal to type, like I’m quoting someone else’s biography instead of my own.

For a while, I existed in survival mode. Therapy. Medication. Hormones doing absolute acrobatics. Sleep deprivation.

I had a deep love for my daughter, but if I’m honest, not that immediate, storybook connection everyone talks about. I wish someone had told me that was okay.

And the chair? It became symbolic of that whole era. Midnight feeds. Tears. Anxiety spirals. The version of me who wasn’t sure she’d feel normal again.

So naturally, I wanted it gone.

Not the chair, really. The feelings seeped into the chair.

I tried to Marie Kondo that phase of life. Thank you, trauma. Goodbye.

Except healing rarely works like that.

Now, two and a half years later, I sit in that same chair most mornings. My daughter eats breakfast at the coffee table in front of me. She colors. I drink coffee. The light feels different. I feel different.

And there’s joy there now.

Not naive joy. Not pre-baby joy. Something sturdier. Earned.

I used to think I “lost” those early months because the fog was so thick. And honestly, sometimes I still grieve that.

But lately I’ve been reframing it. Maybe I didn’t lose them. Maybe I survived them. And maybe surviving gave me a deeper appreciation for being present now.

Motherhood didn’t just change my schedule. It rearranged my identity. Same with heart failure. Same with getting older. Same with stepping away from YouTube.

Identity transitions aren’t clean. They’re messy, nonlinear, occasionally absurd.

One minute you’re making carefree internet videos. The next you’re Googling heart symptoms while rocking a colicky baby.

And yet… here we are.

Beginning again.

Not fresh. Not a blank slate. More like a revised edition. Coffee stains included.

If you’re in a transition right now — parenthood or otherwise — here’s what I wish someone had told me:

You don’t have to rush your way back to yourself.
You’re allowed to become someone slightly different.
Joy can return, but sometimes it shows up wearing new clothes.

And sometimes it looks like sitting in the chair you once wanted to throw away, realizing it quietly carried you through the storm.

Not glamorous.
Not Pinterest.
But real.

And honestly?
Real is starting to feel pretty great.

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P.S.

I talked about this out loud on YouTube today — the postpartum fog, the identity shift, all of it.

If you want the full story, you can watch here: