Made of Me

Made of Me

A Poetic Tribute to the Baby Becoming


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I. First Light

Before the world knew your name,
Before you had fingers or feet,
You lived quietly inside me,
A dream too fragile to speak aloud.

No one else could hear you,
Not even your father—
But I did.
Not in words or sound,
But in the language of knowing,
Of intuition etched in a mother’s marrow.

You were a spark,
A thought wrapped in cells,
Floating weightless in the warm darkness
Beneath my ribs.

I pressed my palm to my belly—
Flat, soft, unchanged—
And whispered,
You're here. I know you're here.

The world went on—
Morning alarms,
Traffic noise,
Grocery lines—
But I moved differently,
Held a secret so sacred
It changed the rhythm of my breath.


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II. The Quiet Months

I read everything I could.
Weeks.
Trimesters.
Checklists and folic acid.

But nothing prepared me for
The stillness of waiting.
The holy anticipation
That fluttered just beneath the surface.

Your existence became
My North Star.
I charted time by your growth—
From poppy seed to blueberry,
Lemon to cantaloupe.
Your evolution became my religion.

At night I’d lay still,
Hands folded like prayer over my belly,
And dream of you—
Of lullabies,
Of first smiles,
Of the weight of your head resting on my chest.

I spoke to you in hushed tones.
The world is big,
But you’ll be safe.
You’ll be brave. I’ll make sure of it.


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III. Our Secret Language

The first time you moved,
I stopped mid-step—
Frozen.
Was that you?
A flutter, like the wings of a trapped moth?
Yes.
It was you.

It became our ritual.
You rolled. I laughed.
You kicked. I hummed.
I read you stories you couldn’t understand,
Sang songs out of tune,
Told you how much I loved you
A hundred different ways
Before I ever saw your face.

Each nudge was a word,
Each stretch a sentence.
We spoke in silence,
In breath and heartbeat.

And when others spoke of you
Like a future event—
A someday—
I smiled quietly.
They didn’t know.
You were already here.
Already mine.


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IV. Becoming More Than Me

I watched my body shift—
Not betray me,
But become me.
Become us.

My skin, once taut and smooth,
Now painted in silver rivers—
Marks of creation.
Badges of becoming.

My feet swelled,
My back groaned,
But my heart—
Oh, my heart made space
I didn’t know existed.

I nested.
Folded clothes the size of my palm,
Lined drawers with dreams,
Hung curtains like shields
To protect your sleep.

Every movement,
Every choice,
Was made with you in mind.

I wasn’t just preparing a nursery—
I was preparing a new version of myself.


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V. Dreams Woven in Waiting

I daydreamed endlessly—
Not about fairytales or lullabies,
But about your eyes meeting mine.

Would they be curious?
Cautious?
Brave?

Would you love stormy skies like I do,
Or soft music and wooden toys?

Would you fall asleep on my chest,
Safe in the rhythm of the world you came from?

Sometimes, I feared.
Would I be enough?
Would I fail you?

And yet,
Each night I’d return to the dream:
Your breath against my collarbone,
Your hand—so impossibly small—
Grasping one finger with unwavering trust.


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VI. The Final Days

The ninth month felt eternal.
Heavy.
Tender.
Final.

Strangers smiled knowingly,
As if I held a universal truth beneath my belly.

I counted kicks.
Listened for signs.
Packed the bag.
Repacked it.
Waited.

I walked the house like a pilgrim,
One hand on the wall,
One on you.

“Soon,” I whispered.
Soon I’ll hold you in my arms instead of beneath my heart.

Still, a part of me mourned
The end of this chapter—
Of having you all to myself,
Of carrying you like a secret song
Only I could hear.


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VII. When You Arrived

Pain came in crashing waves.
Breath,
Groan,
Push—
And surrender.

The room blurred—
Voices above water,
Hands, light, machines—
And then…

Silence.

Then—
You.

A sound that cracked the world open.
Your cry.

And suddenly I was not just a woman.
I was your mother.

They placed you on my chest,
Skin to skin,
And I wept.

You rooted instinctively,
But you had been feeding from my soul
Long before you reached my arms.

I touched your head,
Still damp from the journey.
And whispered,
Hello, love. I’ve been waiting a lifetime.


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VIII. Now That You're Here

Now, in the hush of 3 a.m.,
As you sleep against my heartbeat,
I trace the shape of your nose,
Count your breaths like prayers.

You are here—
Outside of me,
Yet still of me.

The umbilical cord may be gone,
But something deeper remains:
An invisible thread
Woven in breath and love
And sleepless devotion.

You were never just a baby.
You were a transformation.
A becoming.
Mine and yours.

You are made of me—
Of my cells, my songs, my strength,
My fears and my fiercest hope.

And I,
Now remade,
Am made of you.


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🕊️ To the mothers still waiting. To the ones remembering. To the ones becoming — this is for you. If this touched your heart, please leave a ❤️, comment, or share with someone who's also on the sacred path of motherhood.