When Leandro’s mom flew in from San Antonio, I was honestly grateful. Our daughter, Junie, had arrived two weeks early, and I was still recovering—physically, emotionally, all of it. I was barely sleeping, still navigating everything from healing to hormones, and trying to adjust to this huge life shift.
So yes—help sounded amazing.
At first, it was nice. She made a casserole, folded a towel, and gave me the classic advice: “Nap when the baby naps.” But soon, it shifted. She settled into our living room like it was her space, scrolling on her phone, watching her favorite shows, and offering… suggestions. Lots of them.
Like how I was holding Junie. Or dressing her. Or feeding her.
The hardest part? Leandro kept brushing it off with, “She’s just trying to help, babe.”
But something about it didn’t feel like help.
She hadn’t changed a diaper. Not once. And one night, I’m pretty sure she pretended to be asleep when Junie started crying. It was small things that started adding up. And when I gently asked if she had a timeline for her visit, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Oh, I thought I’d stay longer. You clearly need me.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Leandro had already gone back to work, and I was now caring for a newborn… and his mom, who was starting to mention “redecorating to make the space more functional.” I could’ve sworn she moved one of Junie’s baby books. Or maybe I was just overwhelmed.
Then Leandro came home that night and said, “So… my mom got offered a job. Here.”
That stopped me in my tracks.
It was a front desk role at a local clinic, and she was excited. She wanted to stay a while. I didn’t say anything—I just walked into the kitchen, needing air, needing to not cry in front of anyone.
He followed. “I didn’t agree to anything,” he said. “I just thought if she’s working, it might feel better.”
That’s when I finally said it:
“She doesn’t make me feel supported. She makes me feel small. I don’t feel like myself in my own house.”
He listened. Really listened. And to his credit, he talked to her that night.
The next morning, she came out with her suitcase packed. No tension. No drama. Just a quiet, “I think I’ll come back later this summer—when things are more settled. And next time, maybe we can plan ahead together.”
It wasn’t an apology, but it *felt* like understanding.
Later that day, I told Leandro something I hadn’t been able to put into words yet:
“I don’t just feel tired. I feel invisible.”
He took my hand and said, “I see you. You’re doing amazing.”
And just like that, I cried—but this time, it felt like release.
In the weeks that followed, something shifted. Junie and I found our rhythm. I stopped worrying about doing everything “right” and started doing what felt right. Little walks. Naps on my chest. Middle-of-the-night messages to my cousin. Just… being.
And when his mom called to check in, I finally found the words:
“Next time, I’d love for you to be here—not just stay here.”
She laughed a little. Said she understood. And that felt like progress.
**What I learned?**
Real support means stepping in without stepping over. It means asking how to help instead of assuming what’s needed. And setting boundaries? It’s not rejection. It’s care—for yourself, and for the relationship.
If you’ve ever felt this kind of overwhelm, know this: You’re not alone. And your voice matters—even when it shakes.
Have you been there? I’d love to hear how you navigated those early days. Let’s talk about what real support looks like—for moms, partners, and families. ❤️
