Happy New Year, welcome 2022!” Even as I said it, the words sounded weird. Time slipped by too fast. The past two years? A blur. Life flipped upside down and nothing looked the same anymore. We were all stuck at home, trying to keep safe, turning our houses into offices, schools, and everything else. For me, that time was marked by something I never thought would happen I found out I was pregnant at forty-four.
When the first COVID stories hit the news, I had just seen the positive test. I honestly didn’t believe it at first. Years before, doctors had told me there was basically no chance. Less than one percent. I had already given up on the dream. I met my husband late, married him and his three kids, and I told myself, okay, this is my family. Then a year later, there I was, pregnant. My first doctor appointment landed on Valentine’s Day 2020. Sweet timing, but I was terrified. Twenty years working in pediatric intensive care will do that you know too much. Add a pandemic, and it was a lot.
The hardest part wasn’t even the pregnancy itself it was the loneliness of it. My husband couldn’t come into the appointments. Even the big ultrasound, I had to go alone. Family and friends only saw my belly through video calls or pictures. It wasn’t what I had pictured at all. Still, I was lucky. The pregnancy went smoothly, and by the time delivery rolled around, rules had eased up. My husband was allowed to stay. Thank God, because I don’t know how I would’ve survived thirty-six hours of labor without him.
Bringing our daughter home was both beautiful and overwhelming. The older kids adored her right away. My mom came to stay too, since she wanted time with her first grandchild. My husband set up his office inside, the kids had hybrid school, and suddenly the house felt stuffed to the brim. Even the dog loved it he thought it was the best thing ever to have everyone home. Me? Some days I loved it, some days I just needed to escape upstairs with the baby.
The adjustment wasn’t easy. We fought, we snapped, we cried. Some nights I wondered how we’d get through it. But slowly, we found our rhythm. When my maternity leave ended, we had to decide what was next. With COVID still raging, going back to the ICU didn’t seem possible. So I stayed home. It was a huge change. I thought it would feel good to step away after all those years. And in some ways, it did. But then came the guilt. My husband was the one earning now, so I felt like everything else should be on me house, kids, meals, all of it. I tried to do it all, and of course, I couldn’t. The guilt ate at me anyway.
By the end of 2021, people were celebrating the year being over. I didn’t really feel that. I felt… tired. Thoughtful. Like I had given everything I had to everyone else, and there wasn’t much left for me. That’s when I realized I needed a different kind of resolution. Not about fitness or habits or goals. Just one thing: be kinder to myself.
It sounds simple, but it isn’t. It means asking for help before I collapse. It means not feeling bad when I rest, or when I skip a family movie to curl up with a book instead. It means admitting that I can’t do it all and that’s okay. It also means speaking up when someone hurts me, instead of swallowing it just to keep the peace.
That’s my promise for this year. To stop expecting perfection from myself, to let go of guilt, and to give myself the same grace I try to give everyone else. If I can manage that, even a little, maybe the joy will spill into every part of my life.
And maybe that’s the point. Resolutions aren’t about fixing what’s broken. They’re about giving yourself permission to grow, and to breathe.
