Between the Naps
A reflection on finding steadiness in seasons that don’t pause as a mother
The first few months after my son was born were a blur of exhaustion and quiet chaos. But I remember the three-month mark clearly, because that’s when Mariyam entered our lives.
She wasn’t just a nanny. She became my companion in the truest sense. The kind of person whose presence wraps around you like safety.
Before Bangkok, we lived in India, surrounded by family, friends, and constant noise. There was always someone around to hold the baby for a minute, to drop by unannounced, to ask how we were doing. Life was demanding, but never lonely.
When we moved here, that changed overnight. Suddenly, it was just the three of us, my husband, my eight-month-old, and me, in a quiet apartment in a city where we knew no one. The isolation hit hard. I would come home from work to the silence of our new life, trying to hold it all together while figuring out how to rebuild from scratch. There was no village anymore. Just us.
That’s the transition Mariyam helped ease. She brought lightness into the heaviness of those early days. Her laughter filled our home, her calm steadied the constant undercurrent of anxiety I carried, and her instincts with my son were so pure and intuitive that I often felt she knew what we both needed before I even said a word.
When my husband traveled for long stretches, she and I became a team. We took turns through long nights of coughs, fevers, and every virus that came our way. We found rhythm in the unpredictable. She held him so I could shower. I made tea so she could rest. We spoke more through gestures and glances than words.
The day a major earthquake hit, she didn’t hesitate. She scooped my son into her arms, prayed over him, and ran barefoot into the street. That was the moment I knew she loved him like her own.
It’s rare to find someone like that - someone who becomes part of the pulse of your everyday life without ever asking for space. And then, one day, she had to leave.
And life didn’t pause.
People like me, who feel things deeply and hold on tightly, need time to process sudden change. To absorb what’s been lost before building what comes next. But the world doesn’t wait.
Presentations still need to be made. Meetings still start on time. Dinner still needs to be cooked. My son still wakes up at sunrise, expecting the same smile, the same rhythm, the same warmth.
On the surface, the city looks exactly the same - the traffic, the chatter, the hum of routine - but for me, everything has changed.
And that has been the hardest part of motherhood, and one I didn’t realize while stepping into this role. How on you have to be, and how little time there is to decompress. To process. To sit. To pause. And for someone who has spent a lifetime overgiving, overdoing, and pleasing, this has been a crash course in boundaries and self-preservation.
Before my son was born, I could lie in bed after a long day, watch my favorite shows, eat comfort food, cry, journal, go out, and breathe. Now those options are limited. My nervous system, my sleep, my skin, my hormones, my body image - everything has changed. So has my sense of identity. It is transforming in front of my eyes.
And yet, amid that transformation, I’ve come to admire mothers everywhere. How mothers everywhere continue to give so much in such small, in-between moments. Between naps and meetings. Between feeding and cleaning. Between fatigue and hope.
It is nothing short of extraordinary.
If you’re in a season that feels relentless, take a moment today, even if it’s just while your child naps, to breathe and be gentle with yourself.