Last Saturday I woke up to a long Instagram message, which was sent via a follower during the early hours in the morning. I expected something positive...but it wasn’t.
It really wasn’t.
I was shocked at first.
As I read the message, I could feel my heart sinking and my eyes started to burn, because I realised I was fighting back tears.
The message went into a lot of depth about how I had become ‘unrelatable’ to follow as a first-time mum.
Apparently, I was being too positive.
As I re-read the message, I realised this had been sent via a first-time mum also, and that clearly my content had been a trigger.
I sat there and questioned all of my stories and posts…
I constantly cover how demanding breastfeeding can be.
I frequently post while my son is feeding...AGAIN.
I covered the fact my son had an undiagnosed posterior tongue tie, which caused a lot of upset (from both me and him) during feeds.
I photographed the evidence of projectile vomit episodes and even poo explosions…
I mean it can’t get much more real than that...can it?
What I have done throughout documenting this crazy journey is that I have always covered this stuff from a positive point of view.
I’ve laughed off the sick episodes and the fact that I seem to put on more washing loads in days, than I previously have in weeks.
I’ve smiled as I’ve questioned if my son is having a growth spurt AGAIN?! Because he has fed for the 6th time that morning.
I’ve joked about the fact that a hair wash has become a fortnightly thing…who even has the time anymore?!
I haven’t had to make any sort of effort to be this positive…
I AM SO GRATEFUL.
The kind of grateful that fills me from my head to my toes.
The kind of grateful that makes me feel #blessed just walking around the corner to Costa coffee.
The kind of grateful that makes me positive and upbeat without even realising.
Do you know why?!
October 2019 the phrase ‘I am so sorry for your loss’ was directed towards me multiple times.
As if I had lost my keys or an object.
I had actually lost a life-long dream: my baby, at the 12-week point.
They call it a missed miscarriage.
I call it ‘that one time my body played the most horrific trick on itself’...
I have had endometriosis for almost a decade now.
I managed to get pregnant after less than 1 year of trying.
Pretty good going considering I had 4 operations by that point, and I was all set up for the fact that I may need to go down the IVF route…
You can imagine after feeling like my life was some sort of twisted nightmare for 1 month, that when I unexpectedly found out, only 2 months later that I had managed to get pregnant again...the gratefulness came.
The whole pregnancy I was on edge.
Then a pandemic hit the whole world HARD, and along with not being able to see family and friends back home in Glasgow (I now live in London with my husband)...I, unfortunately, ended up finding out that I had Covid-19 at around 17 weeks pregnant.
I was in and out of hospital… and thought the nightmare would start all over again…
By some miracle, my wee fighter thrived.
Fast forward 20 weeks or so and along came my son.
Just like that, I believed in magic again…
So I may constantly smile.
I may constantly laugh things off.
I may constantly always look at the good over the bad.
But I won’t apologise.
I instead choose to thank my lucky stars.
