03/06/2025
Just 30 Minutes, Momma
I just finished my first book of the year. At the start of 2025, I set a goal to read 25 books—something I thought would be so easy because books have always been one of my most favorite things in the world.
Before Addi was even born, she already had a hefty, little library growing. We couldn’t wait to read to her every night, to build that bedtime routine filled with stories and snuggles. And when she was in the NICU, that’s exactly what we did. Every single day, we read to her. It was our thing, our way of wrapping her in love through words, even when our arms couldn’t always hold her.
Bless Addi's Daddy, he made sure she had a constant rotation of books so we could read as many as possible with her. Every time we finished a few, he’d bring in new ones, making sure she heard different stories, different voices, different pieces of the world we dreamed of showing her one day. He took care of her, of me, of us—and he still does.
But after losing Addi, reading—this thing I had loved my entire life—suddenly felt impossible.
Allowing myself any kind of joy has felt impossible. Whether it’s laughing, reading, or feeling even a moment of happiness, I’ve felt overwhelming guilt. Every time I caught myself smiling or getting lost in something that made me happy, there was this nagging voice in the back of my mind saying, "How can you feel joy when she's gone?"
The things that once brought me peace and comfort—like curling up with a good book—became painful reminders of the version of myself that existed before. And that person? She feels so far away now.
But one day, I decided to try.
I told myself, "Just 30 minutes. That’s all. You deserve that." I wasn’t committing to finishing a book or making a reading list or forcing myself into something I wasn’t ready for. I was simply giving myself 30 minutes to escape, to get lost in another world, to let my mind focus on something other than grief.
So, I started. And then I kept going.
Now, I’m on my second book.
I have no idea if grief, depression, and guilt will creep back in and stall my progress again—because let’s be honest, grief isn’t linear, and healing isn’t either. But for right now, I’m taking my 30 minutes. I’m allowing myself this small pocket of time to find something that feels good again.
And I don’t know, momma… maybe you’re deep in the NICU trenches, barely holding on, and you just need 30 minutes outside in the sun. Maybe you’re a loss mom, and the weight of grief feels unbearable—but maybe just 30 minutes of something, anything, can help you keep going.
When I was in the NICU with Addi, I remember one of her RTs asking me if I ever saw sunlight lol. I made it a point to. Even if it was just for a few minutes outside during lunch or stepping out at night when the hospital hallways were quiet and still. Those small moments mattered. They reminded me that there was a world outside those hospital walls, even when my heart felt trapped inside them.
If you’re a NICU mom, I promise you—you are already doing everything you possibly can for your baby. Giving yourself a little time to breathe doesn’t make you any less of a warrior for them. If anything, it helps you be at your best when they need you most.
And if you’re a loss mom, I know how dark this place can feel. I know how impossible it seems to think about joy or hope or even just existing in a world without your baby. Maybe right now, it feels like there’s nothing that could possibly bring you peace. And I get that, I really do.
But maybe, just maybe, you can try 30 minutes.
Not to heal. Not to move on. Just to exist in a way that feels a little less painful, even if just for a moment.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s a start. 💜