In Her Arms, I Heel Too.... ❤️

There are a thousand ways to describe motherhood, but none quite captures the still, sacred moments shared between a mother and her nursing child. In the middle of the daily rush, chores piling up, endless to-do lists, and a mind that never stops spinning — there comes a pause. A quiet. A breath. That moment when I hold my baby close, and she latches on.

Breastfeeding, for me, has become so much more than nourishment. It’s a love language. A conversation spoken in silence. A soft thread that connects us, soul to soul.

There’s a moment that touches something so deep inside me — every time I bring her close, as I gently guide my nipple to her mouth, she instinctively curls up against me. Her tiny feet fold up, her body curves inward, and she presses herself close to my stomach, almost like she’s kicking from the inside again. Just like she used to, when she was in my womb. It’s the strangest and most beautiful feeling — like she never really left that space. Now she’s on the outside, but still nestled in that same place, safe and warm. It’s a continuation, not a separation.

And then, in the middle of nursing, she sometimes pauses to look up at me. Her big, slightly blue, searching eyes find mine — and she smiles. That smile isn’t just cute. It’s pure magic. A moment of connection so strong it stops the world around us. That smile tells me, You’re everything I need. And I silently whisper back, You’re everything I ever hoped for.

Sometimes, her little hands begin to move. She runs her tiny palm across my chest or my arm, fingers splayed in that curious way babies do, and it feels like the world’s gentlest massage. Her touch is soft, rhythmic, calming. Like she’s soothing me in return. As if she knows — somehow — that I need comfort too. In those quiet moments, I find myself whispering things to her — dreams, love notes, lullabies, half-formed thoughts wrapped in warmth. She doesn’t understand my words, but she feels them. I can tell by the way she breathes, by how peacefully she rests against me.

My eyes sometimes brim with tears, not of sadness, but of something bigger than joy. A kind of sacred gratitude. This bond, this exchange, this closeness — it’s healing. It’s transformative. Of course, there are sore days, long nights, and physical strains. But none of it outweighs the beauty of this connection. The privilege of being her safe place. Her first home — and still her favorite one.

I know this phase won’t last forever. One day, her feet won’t fold up against me the same way. She’ll grow, stretch, and run toward the world with open arms. But for now, we’re still wrapped in that invisible thread — womb to world — stitched together by love, milk, and presence.

This is the quiet symphony of motherhood.

And I am so, so lucky to hear it play.

Nidhiya’s Amma.-