Routine

Four months postpartum, and I’m finally starting to fall into a good rhythm. The days feel familiar now — the same streets and buildings we pass each week, each with their own smells and colors that have become part of our story. Aly’s gymnastics class. Her dance studio. The grocery store. And the crisp scent of autumn meeting us on afternoon walks as we pick her up from school.

There’s comfort in the repetition — the weekly meal planning and grocery runs, rain or shine. The aroma of dinner simmering on the stove, spices lingering in the air. Mornings tangled up together, all four of us, laughing with sleepy eyes and dreaming of that first sip of coffee. The weekly yoga classes I teach, and the rituals that take place before those classes. The conscious effort so that they are creative and intuitive.

There’s the quiet, sacred part too — the sound of nursing, the sensation of nourishing a tiny human I dreamed about for years. The middle of the night wake ups to feed him and the knowing it won’t last forever.

When I was in high school, I remember scribbling imaginary weekly meal plans for my “future family.” Back then, this life was only a dream, and now, the ordinary moments I once fantasized about have become my reality. . What’s ordinary now was once a wish whispered into the future.

At my trauma-informed yoga training this past weekend, the icebreaker question was: “When I’m ninety years old, I see myself…”
As I closed my eyes, I saw a porch. From that porch, I could see my children and grandchildren running in the yard, their laughter carried by the breeze. I saw family photos lining the staircase and trinkets collected from years of adventures displayed throughout our home. And my husband’s hand, still holding mine.

Just as my teenage self once dreamed of a cozy home and the intimacy of home-cooked meals, this new dream — of porchside afternoons and generations gathered together — is beginning to take shape within me.

My hope is that this new vision will one day become my new normal. Just another part of the everyday. And if it does, wouldn’t I be the luckiest girl? I think so.

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Ashes and after