The sacred rebirth of postpartum
My reflections of motherhood in a modern world that says "do more"
Somewhere between the 3 a.m. feeding and the 6 a.m. sunrise, I learned to listen.
Not to the world—loud and demanding—but to the quiet whisper that said, "Pause."
Modern motherhood celebrates motion. The bounce-back. The hustle. The curated stories of ‘doing great’ three weeks postpartum. We’re taught that stillness is laziness and rest is indulgent. But what if we just have it all backwards?
What if the bravest, most radical act a mother can take is to stop all of it?
When I gave birth to Artemis, I received a flood of messages congratulating me and highlighting my strength. But I wasn’t being strong in the way the world defines strength.
I was leaking. Crying out to God. Nipples burning and chapped. Afterbirth pains. Bleeding. Tender. Sitting on my bed holding a human being who needed my body more than I’d ever needed anything.
And in that moment, I realized: strength isn’t in the doing. Strength is surrender.
The ultimate lesson God has revealed to me during my birth & postpartum.
To rest in the middle of chaos is to reclaim something so sacred. Our birthright. A song the womb remembers but the world forgets.
Postpartum isn’t just some medical term to describe the days following birth. It’s a spiritual season. A rebirth of the mother.
We celebrate birth and shower mamas with gifts to welcome her baby, but rarely do we honor the months that follow—the long nights of unwashed hair and silent weeping, the visceral transformation of a woman’s inner world.
I believe that postpartum is a portal to be walked with God.
But no one really tells you that.
No one says: “You might grieve your old self, your old life and that’s okay.”
No one says: “You’re allowed to rest without guilt.”
No one says: “You don’t have to smile through the exhaustion.”
Instead, they say: “When are you going back to work?” “What are you going to do?”
There’s an unspoken culture of performative wellness in motherhood. We're supposed to “self-care” with bath bombs while silently enduring sleep deprivation and emotional unraveling.
But real self-care doesn’t always fit in a pretty box with a bow on it.
It might look like turning off your phone and crying in the shower.
It might look like canceling brunch because you just can’t perform being okay.
It might look like saying, “No, I’m not available for that,” and meaning it.
When you rest—not just physically, but spiritually—you’re modeling something sacred for your children: that mothers are worthy of gentleness.
That mothers deserve softness, too.
A mother’s nervous system is the family’s metronome.
I once heard that a mother’s nervous system sets the tone for the entire home.
And I felt that in my bones.
Our children don’t just inherit our genetics. They inherit our pace. Our reactions. Our breath. Our franticness or our peace.
When we rush, they learn urgency.
When we pause, they learn presence.
And so, the sacred pause isn’t just about you. It’s about legacy. It’s about the ripple effect of regulated mothers raising grounded children.
And I, personally, have had to lean on Jesus hard during this time. For the peace. The surrender. The slowness. The grace.
I didn’t realize how deeply ingrained “the hustle” was in me.
In a society that defines women by how much they can endure, saying “I will pause” becomes a protest.
We’ve normalized burnout as a badge of honor. We applaud mothers who never sit down, who return to work in weeks, who bounce back in body and schedule.
But I say: Let’s stop bouncing back and start sinking in.
Sink into this version of yourself—the one that is soft and new and forming.
Sink into the knowing that nothing about you is broken or behind.
Sink into your own breath.
Lean back into God & call for help when needed.
Let rest be your resistance.
Tonight, light a candle. Not to fix or change anything—but to witness yourself.
Ask yourself: Where have I performed strength, instead of practicing softness?
Place your hand over your heart & your womb.
Whisper, “You’re allowed to rest.”
Then pause. Breathe. Pray. Listen.
Because in stillness, something ancient returns.
And it’s you.
XX
Tiffany