a true story about big feelings
It's 2 AM. Again.
It's 2 AM and she's crying down the hall, and every part of me wants to sprint in and make it stop.
the realization
The thing that finally worked was doing less, not more. When I stopped bouncing her around and slowed my own body down first, she settled into my quiet. She was borrowing my calm because she couldn't find her own yet.
It's 2 AM. Again. Down the hall she's crying, and I'm already up, already moving, before my eyes are even open. For weeks my whole plan was speed. Lights on, scoop her up, bounce, shush, walk the hallway, do something, anything, to make it stop.
have you ever felt this way too?
And it mostly didn't work. If anything the faster I moved, the more wound up she got. She'd arch away from me, cry harder, and I'd stand there in the dark feeling like I was doing everything wrong at once.
So one night I just didn't. I left the lamp off. I knelt by her bed instead of picking her up, put one hand on her back, and made myself breathe slow even though my heart was going. I stopped trying to fix the dark. I kept my voice really low and I stayed.
Her breathing found mine. Little by little the crying turned into those hiccupy after-cry breaths, and then just breathing, and her hand let go of the blanket. I stayed until she was heavy and gone again. No walking, no lights, no rescue. Just me being still next to her in the dark.
what I found myself saying
"I'm right here. You don't have to do anything."
"Shh. I've got you. We're just going to breathe."
"I'm not going anywhere. Close your eyes."
