Love and Time
I read the phrase
and something in my chest caved in.
Not softly.
Like a wall giving out
that I didn’t know I was leaning on.
I thought about the pregnancy test.
The positive line.
People ask if I felt love.
I didn’t.
I felt afraid.
I felt like the version of me I knew
had just ended
and no one asked if I was ready.
Even when I held her for the first time,
love didn’t rush in.
I remember waiting for it.
Wondering what was wrong with me.
I held her and thought—
maybe this comes later.
Maybe I need time.
The first heartbeat.
She wasn’t she yet.
She was it.
A thing inside me.
A bean.
Barely formed.
And still—
my face broke into a smile.
I didn’t cry.
That surprised me.
I didn’t know I could feel happy
about someone I hadn’t met.
Who was I making?
What would she look like?
Would she like me?
Would I ruin her?
Would I be enough?
Is this what love is
or just fear dressed up as hope?
Then came the ER visits.
The vomiting.
Weeks where water wouldn’t stay down.
Months where my body felt emptied out.
Breathing hurt.
Being awake hurt.
I thought about endings.
I thought about survival.
And every time they told me
she was fine,
she was strong,
she was growing—
I kept going.
Not because I felt brave.
Because time was moving
whether I could keep up or not.
At 1 a.m.
her hand wrapped around my finger.
I was still bleeding.
Still shaking.
Still not sure who I was anymore.
But I understood something then.
I had done this.
I had made life.
Not an idea.
Not a dream.
A person.
She was real.
And she was here.
My chest filled in a way
that hurt and healed at the same time.
I cried because I made it.
Because we made it.
Because I could finally see
the thing I spent so long
trying to survive for.
Love didn’t arrive all at once.
It grew.
Slow.
Stubborn.
Built from staying.
She holds my heart now.
Not because I was ready.
But because time taught me how.
She came through me.
By me.
And with my hands,
with all the time it took,
I will give her
the love I learned
how to grow.
Love and time.