In a wonderfully dramatic change to my life, I became a mother two months ago. My son was born at the end of March via an unplanned but otherwise uncomplicated c-section. Parenthood has been predictably overwhelming, exhausting, and existentially glorious.

My days are now spent holding a sleeping newborn on my chest, timing wake windows, picking up the dropped pacifier for the 19th time, trying to eat with 0.5 hands free, and watching an eternal stream of Gilmore Girls episodes on a precariously balanced iPhone while feeding/burping/soothing/rocking/patting this tiny human. It swings between hard physical labour with high cortisol levels, to extremely chill, serene, and joyful a dozen times throughout the day and night.

I had doubts about becoming a mother when I was younger. Mostly related to systemic gender inequality, believing I would need to sacrifice my whole career for it, and thinking myself incapable of bearing the responsibility (which, to be fair, I was before age ~28). I spent a solid year in angst and turmoil trying to figure it out. All the parents around me only shared details of how stressful, sleep-deprived, expensive, and burdensome their new lives were. Perhaps because it felt too trite or vulnerable to put into words the love, joy, and purpose that comes with it.

Being on the other side, I now realise there was no calculation or algorithm or pro/con list or financial spreadsheet that could have helped me understand what it would feel like. Nothing that would do justice to the emotional weight of holding your sleeping baby that you made with your own body. Of watching them grin back at you with uncomplicated joy. Of realising you’ll get to watch them grow into a full person; one that is – at least genetically – half you and half the person you love most in the world. Of watching them trip out as they realise they have hands.

I can now say with certainty I am evolutionarily wired for this. Perhaps not everyone is. But everything in me is designed to feel existential delight at each little fart, squeak, grunt, and sneeze that comes out of this child. Delight that is unrivalled by any successful day at work, fully shipped feature, long cathartic run, or Sunday morning buttery croissant – the banal highlights of my past life. When I think back to my pre-baby self, trying to calculate herself into a clear decision, I wish I could let her feel for one minute what it’s like to hold him. And tell her I can’t believe I ever considered depriving myself of this.

In other news, I’ve read no books (other than Your Baby Week by Week and Secrets Of The Baby Whisperer ), had few higher-order thoughts, and binge watched all of Motherland . As this child learns to sleep in more predictable ways, I’m looking forward to being less of a zombie and engaging with the world again.