To my beautiful boy,

You are just 15 months old. So small. So pure. Your hands fit inside mine like they were always meant to be there. And sometimes, when everything feels like too much — your little fingers wrapped around mine are the only thing that keeps me grounded.

I want to tell you something that’s hard to say out loud. When you were born, I wasn’t just overwhelmed with love — I was overwhelmed with fear, sadness, and anxiety.

Postpartum depression crept in like a shadow, even as the world celebrated your arrival. I felt lost, numb, heavy. But even in those early days, when my chest ached for so many reasons and the tears came without warning — you would hold my finger.

You didn’t know it, but that tiny act kept me going. Your hand, your warmth, your weight against me — it reminded me that something beautiful had come into my life, even if my brain couldn’t feel it yet.

Now you’re 15 months old and joy radiates from you like sunlight. You laugh with your whole body. You chase bubbles like they’re magic. And even on the days where I feel like I’m crumbling inside, I find myself smiling for you — because you deserve light, not my darkness.

So I push through. I play. I sing. I dance with you in the living room like my heart isn’t heavy. Because I never want you to carry the weight I sometimes feel. But oh, how deeply I love you. And how that love has grown — slowly, fiercely, honestly.

Some days it bloomed instantly. Some days it had to be watered through exhaustion and tears. But now, it’s rooted in everything I do. Still, there is fear. I see stories online — other mothers who’ve lost their children. Tiny coffins. Sudden illnesses. Accidents. And I hold you tighter. I check if you’re breathing at night. I picture the worst and pray it never comes true. Because to be a mother is to walk around with your heart outside your body — and every joy is matched by the terror of losing it.

But here’s what I’ve learned in these 15 months we’ve grown together: I can feel fear and still give you freedom. I can feel sadness and still give you joy.

And even when I am unsure of myself, your hands in mine remind me that I am enough. You saved me in ways you’ll never understand. Not because you had to — but just by being you.

Just by reaching out for me when I needed something to hold on to. So if one day you ever wonder if you were loved, if you made a difference — let me tell you now:

You were the light that began to burn in my darkness. You were the calm in my storm. Your tiny hands — they saved a heavy heart. You are half of the person I love dearly and half of me. 

Love,

Mama