Diaries of a First Time Mom: What No One Tells You About the First Year

Phoenix had recently turned 15 months old, and I found myself wanting to reflect on my first year of motherhood. Not just for him, but for me. A way to honor what it meant to become a first-time mom and what this year actually felt like. The year flew by, and the saying that the days are long but the years are short could not be more true. This year taught me that becoming a mother is not about losing yourself, but about shedding everything that no longer matters.

I wanted to capture this in a way I could look back on someday, but I also felt like maybe it could be something meaningful to share with my community here. My brain usually likes to function in buckets, but this time I wanted to let it unfold the way it actually happened, from the very beginning.

Pregnancy

When I found out I was pregnant, I was shocked to my core. It was not how I imagined telling my best friend or my mom, but that was life. I still went to Illenium’s concert sober, and looking back, that moment feels like the first quiet marker of everything changing for us.

The first trimester was exhausting. I never had morning sickness, but the fatigue was unreal. I took multiple naps a day, and the only way I can explain it is that it felt like doing five EDCs in one day. My body was doing something monumental, even if it did not look like it on the outside.

By the second trimester, I felt like myself again. I felt like a new woman. My hair was luscious. My skin was glowing. My bump was showing. I found a new energy. It was also the height of wedding season. I was traveling constantly, working nonstop, and doing everything with the same intensity I always had, just pregnant.

The third trimester came with its own challenges. I got really big. The pelvic pain was horrendous. Nasal issues started. I could only sleep on my side. But because I stayed so busy, I was incredibly present and did not spend much time thinking about birth.

By 35 weeks, I was lucky enough to take a full month off. That time felt like a gift to myself after such a demanding wedding season and years of pushing my body and mind hard. I never had contractions leading up to labor, so I did not know when it was coming. I just knew it was close.

What is funny looking back is that I never realized I was even having contractions at first. Jonathan always jokes about my low pain tolerance, and I truly believed him. I did not feel what I thought contractions were supposed to feel like. But once it escalated, I was begging to get to the hospital as soon as possible. By the time we arrived, they checked me and told me I was already seven centimeters dilated. I was shocked.

Turns out I do not actually have a low pain tolerance after all. I just did not register pain the way I expected to.

Birth and the Beginning

When the day fully arrived, it was not like the movies. Once I got my epidural, the room became quiet and calm. Jonathan was there, steady and grounded. I leaned into every skill I had learned about staying present and meditative. My only focus was pushing this baby out.

Four and a half hours later, this eight-pound and 2.9 oz little nugget was here.

The moment I saw him, I felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness. He was tiny and looked like a little old man, but my heart felt so big it could burst.

What I wish people talked about more is postpartum pain. Because wow, it was intense. For the first two weeks, I stayed in bed as much as I could, ate well, and focused on recovery. Thank goodness for my mom, who took care of me with such intention. She prepared noni steam baths weekly, cooked all of our meals, and supported me while I learned how to breastfeed. Jonathan handled bottles, logistics, and the invisible work so I could heal.

I always thought I would not like breastfeeding. I remember telling my girlfriends I would not be that mom who cared about it. But I was wrong. I absolutely loved it. On top of nursing, I pumped four to five times a day simply because it felt like something extra I could give my baby.

Breastfeeding became sacred to me. Quiet. Intimate. Grounding. And oftentimes lonely.

When I eventually had to stop, I grieved it deeply. For months. There was a sadness that sat heavy in my chest, a sense of loss I did not expect to feel so intensely. I miss it so, so much. I would do anything to be able to nurse him again. That chapter ended before I was ready, and letting go of it broke my heart in ways I am still learning how to hold.

At birth, Phoenix went through jaundice. He did not poop for the first 24 to 48 hours, and when he finally did five days after coming home, I never thought I would be so happy over poop.

The newborn days were pure survival mode. Diapers. Night wakes. Naps. Bottles. Sleep deprivation. Trying to remember when we last ate. Jonathan and I learned how to divide and conquer in ways we never had before. We were exhausted, but we were in it together, passing the baton back and forth, learning how to function as a unit instead of two individuals.

Postpartum Journey

It was during this season that I found myself thinking constantly about my mom. I thought about what it must have been like for her to go through this largely alone. To wake up night after night without a partner to tap in. To carry the physical exhaustion, the emotional weight, the financial pressure, and the responsibility of keeping a tiny human alive, all on her own, with only my grandma by her side.

The more exhausted I felt, the deeper my respect grew.

Motherhood cracked something open in me. It rewired the way I see the woman who raised me. Suddenly, her strength felt louder. Her sacrifices felt heavier. The things she endured felt almost unfathomable. I realized how much she carried quietly, without complaint, without recognition, just because she had to. Now, when I look at my mom, I do not just see my mother. I see a woman who survived something I am only beginning to understand. And that realization has softened me toward her in ways nothing else ever could.

From the beginning, it mattered to me that Phoenix be integrated into our life, not the other way around. We went on walks. We went outside. We lived. At four months old, everything shifted. Phoenix developed eczema, went through failure to thrive, delayed motor skills, and eventually helmet therapy for four months. Appointments became routine. Progress felt uncertain. Patience became mandatory. This was where Jonathan and I were tested. Our time, attention, and energy were no longer ours alone. We had to relearn how to choose each other while choosing him.

I became obsessive about solutions. I asked questions. I pushed back. I challenged specialists. Jonathan stood beside me and trusted my instincts. Together, we learned how to advocate loudly and challenge the system when needed.

That advocacy made me reflect deeply on my own mom and how hard it must have been to fight systems where English was not her first language. It is hard enough to advocate when you are exhausted. To do it while translating, while being misunderstood, while feeling small in rooms that decide your child’s care is something else entirely. That realization humbled me, made me more compassionate, and also made me angry about the disparity in who gets heard. Because of that, raising Phoenix multilingual has been deeply important to me. He understands English and Vietnamese, and I asked his paternal grandparents to speak only Cantonese with him when they see him. Language is culture. Roots. Belonging. I want him grounded in who he is from every side of his family. I want him to hear his grandmother’s words without translation and feel proud of where he comes from.

I have always lived a healthy lifestyle and learned to love my body over time. I trusted it. So standing in front of the mirror postpartum felt strange. I lost fifteen pounds immediately, and it still did not make me happy. I missed my pregnant belly. It was replaced by saggy skin, stretch marks, and a flat pancake booty. Reconnecting with my body took time. I went from the gym five to six days a week to three. By his first birthday, I still had about four pounds of postpartum weight left. Some days I was patient. Some days I was harsh. If there is one thing my therapist reminds me often, it is that I am my own worst critic. There were days I needed my loved ones to remind me what my body had done, what it had endured, and what it continues to give.

It was not until Phoenix was around fourteen months old that I truly started seeing a difference from my hard work, not just physically, but emotionally. I felt reconnected to my body again. I moved with respect instead of punishment. That reconnection felt just as meaningful as any physical change.

Because Phoenix needed us, I extended my maternity leave. And I want to be very clear about this part.

This shit was hard.

There was a stretch of time where Jonathan had already gone back to work, and I was essentially solo-parenting while still trying to hold everything else together. I was caring for a newborn with medical needs, managing appointments, advocating constantly, and keeping our household running. At the same time, I was helping my brother through medical school applications, offering emotional support, editing essays, holding space for his stress, and making sure he did not feel alone in one of the biggest transitions of his life.

I was holding the fort down on all fronts.

Thank God for my village at home. Thank God for my mom. Without them, I truly do not know how I would have survived that stretch.

And at the same time, I need this to be said clearly and without hesitation. No one gets to tell me that I do not care deeply about my wedding business or my clients.

I did my first big wedding five weeks postpartum. My first baby long before Phoenix ever existed. I remember crying in the car on the way to the ceremony, pumping gear beside me, emotions spilling over. I was grieving time with my newborn while stepping back into a role that requires leadership, presence, and emotional labor.

And I showed up. When I show up, I show up fully. I pumped between moments. I held space while my body was still healing. I gave my clients my whole heart. They were incredibly kind. They built pumping breaks into the wedding timeline. They made sure I was fed, hydrated, and rested.

That kindness is not lost on me. It reaffirmed why I do what I do and who I choose to work with.

When it came time to return to my corporate job, I was met with resistance and asked to choose. And when I did return, I was given one of the most complex, high-budget projects immediately. No grace. No buffer. No acknowledgment of what I had just navigated personally.

And I killed it.

I came back high performing. Focused. Delivering. The part of me that loves working, that thrives on challenge, and that takes pride in excellence did not disappear when I became a mother. If anything, it sharpened.

That experience only deepened my frustration with how new parents are treated in this country. We are seen as liabilities when in reality, many of us return more efficient, more discerning, and more resilient than ever.

The Lesson of Choice

During postpartum, I was presented with an incredible work opportunity. I was asked to speak for Oracle at a huge conference in Dallas. Under any other circumstances, this would have been a no-brainer. A stage like that. A milestone like that. The kind of opportunity I used to chase without hesitation.

For a moment, I considered it.

And then I did not go.

That decision was one of my first real lessons of motherhood. Learning how to make difficult choices without resentment. Understanding that you can want something deeply and still decide it is not right for right now.

My best friend Steven always tells me, “Khanh, you can have everything you want. Just not at the same time.” And that truth shows up in every facet of my life now.

If I choose to work a wedding on the weekend, I am choosing to give up time with the most important person in my life. And if I say no to a work opportunity, I am saying yes to something else. Presence. Rest. Time. Connection.

Motherhood forced me to rewire the way I measure success. I used to chase goals, milestones, stages, and titles. I moved fast. I stacked accomplishments. I rarely paused.

Now, I move differently.

The hardest adjustment for me was learning how to stay present instead of always reaching for the next thing. Learning that not every opportunity needs to be seized immediately. Learning that choosing my family does not mean I am losing momentum. It means I am choosing alignment.

Saying no no longer feels like failure. It feels like intention.

And that has been one of the most challenging and meaningful lessons of this entire year.

Before We Were Three

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized motherhood was not just reshaping me. It was reshaping us.

Before we were three, there was just us. Our routines. Our freedom. Our DINKS (dual income, no kids) lifestyle. Our way of moving through the world together. We were so used to doing everything side by side, traveling, working, building, living life at a pace that felt natural to us. And then suddenly, everything changed.

Motherhood did not just add a baby to our life. It fundamentally reshaped our relationship. Our time was no longer our own. Our attention was divided. Our energy was stretched in ways we had never experienced before. There were moments when we were both exhausted, emotionally depleted, and running on fumes, trying to show up for Phoenix while also not losing each other in the process.

Jonathan and I had to relearn how to choose one another in this new season. Choosing each other now takes intention. It takes communication. It takes grace. It takes effort. It does not happen by default anymore. And this is something I wish people talked about more.

Having a baby can be beautiful, but it can also be incredibly confronting. It exposes cracks. It magnifies dynamics. It tests patience and partnership in ways nothing else does. Watching my own mom navigate motherhood largely alone showed me exactly how much the choice of partner matters. Seeing her make two very different decisions in her life gave me all the clarity I ever needed.

Choosing your partner wisely is fundamentally one of the most important decisions you will ever make.

Jonathan could not be a more phenomenal father to Phoenix. Watching him show up consistently, carry weight without being asked, protect our family, and love our son so deeply has changed the way I love him. It has deepened my respect in ways words barely touch. He is not perfect, and neither am I, but he is present, dependable, and committed.

And that matters more than anything.

Motherhood showed me that love is not just romance. It is partnership. It is shared responsibility. It is choosing each other again and again, especially when it is hard.

Phoenix Today

Despite everything Phoenix went through, he has the most incredible energy. And I do not just mean that he is cute, although he absolutely is. Everywhere we go, we get stopped. Over and over again. Strangers linger, smile at him, comment on him.

And it is never just about how he looks.

It is his aura. His warmth. His presence.

Knowing what his little body endured, the jaundice, the failure to thrive, the delayed motor skills, the helmet, the appointments, and now seeing him catch up and speed through his growth feels nothing short of extraordinary. He is tall. Active. Curious. Chatty. Watching him grow into himself has been one of the most grounding experiences of my life.

During his first year, he traveled to the Bay Area, Las Vegas, Seattle, Vancouver, Whistler, Cabo, and Hawaii. He stayed at his first two Michelin Key hotels. He started solids. By the time he turned one, he had eight beautiful little teeth. At thirteen months, his hair turned curly. He gets that from me. And when I look at him, I see parts of two people I love most in the world.

For his first birthday, I threw him an intimate DJ PHX One Republic celebration. His first year was already so hard, and I wanted to bring softness and warmth wherever I could.

Khanh Today

Motherhood did not just change my routines or my body. It changed me as a person.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the people-pleasing parts of myself. Motherhood forced clarity in a way nothing else ever had. If I choose to commit myself to something now, it means I am actively choosing to say no to spending quality time with the person I love most. Because of that, everything has to feel right.

I was intentional before motherhood, but now I am even more intentional. I move with purpose instead of obligation. That clarity shaped how I move through my work, my relationships, and my life. I became more direct. More decisive. I learned how to communicate my needs, my boundaries, and my expectations without guilt. I learned how to ask for help. I stopped over-explaining. I became sharper and more focused, but not hardened.

At the same time, motherhood softened me in ways I did not expect. I became more empathetic, more compassionate, and more aware of what people carry quietly. I see other parents differently now. I see invisible labor. Silent resilience. The constant choosing. I understand that strength and tenderness can coexist at the same time.

I am very intentional about not drowning in mom guilt. I love my son deeply, but I do not believe that loving him requires losing myself. When I am dancing my heart out with my friends or spending quality time with people I love, I am fully present. I do not sit there wishing I was somewhere else. I do not carry guilt for choosing joy.

Presence, wherever you are, is a form of love.

Motherhood is the deepest part of me. It is the most sacred identity I hold. But it is not the only part of me. I am still a woman. A partner. A friend. A bo$$. A daughter. A sister. I am still piecing myself together in the midst of it all. Motherhood did not make me smaller. It refined me. It sharpened my boundaries. It softened my heart. It clarified my values.

If you are in the thick of it right now, trying to hold everything together while quietly unraveling, I see you. You are not behind. You are becoming.

I am still learning. Still growing. Still rising.

Phoenix, my love for you grows every single day. I am endlessly grateful and deeply honored to be your mom.