Seven weeks. It sounds like a comfortable amount of time when you say it quickly, but when you sit with it—really sit with it—it feels both expansive and impossibly short. Seven weeks until Ella is here. Seven weeks until everything shifts, rearranges, deepens. I find myself living in a strange in-between: not quite the life I’ve always known, but not yet the one I’ve been imagining for months.
My body reminds me daily that this is real. There’s a weight to everything now—not just physical, though that’s undeniable—but emotional too. Movements are slower, more deliberate. I notice how I lower myself onto a chair, how I roll out of bed, how I pause halfway through an easy walk and laugh at myself for needing a moment. There’s a quiet negotiation happening all the time: what I want to do versus what my body gently insists I should do instead.
Slowing down doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve always liked movement, productivity, the sense of ticking things off. But now, rest isn’t optional—it’s part of the work. Some days I accept that easily. I take the longer morning, sit with a cup of coffee, Amber curled up on my lap, and feel almost grateful for the enforced stillness. Other days, I resist it. I feel the itch to do more, to keep up with the version of myself that doesn’t need to think twice about a hike up a mountain or a full day of activity.
But there’s a shift happening. A quiet understanding that slowing down isn’t losing something—it’s making space. Space for Ella. Space to notice these last weeks before she arrives. Space to feel everything I might otherwise rush past.
And then there are the thoughts about the birth itself. The idea of an elective C-section sits in my mind in a very practical, very grounded way. It’s not dramatic or overwhelming—it’s more like a steady consideration, something I turn over gently. There’s comfort in the predictability of it, in knowing when and how things will happen. A sense of control in a process that is otherwise so unknown.
At the same time, it brings its own set of reflections. Recovery. The physical healing. The reality of needing to rest even more, right at the moment life becomes more demanding than ever. I picture those early days—holding Ella, learning her rhythms, navigating the newness of it all—and I try to layer on the understanding that I’ll also be healing, that I’ll need to be patient with myself in a way I’ve never quite had to before. I feel very lucky to have my friend Melanie supporting me through this. I call her my angel as I like to think my mum sent her when I needed an angel the most.
There’s a tenderness in thinking about meeting Ella for the first time. I imagine her face, her tiny movements, the weight of her in my arms. I wonder what she’ll look like, what her cry will sound like, whether I’ll feel instant love or something slower, that grows over time.
And woven through all of this is Amber.
She’s been my constant companion, my shadow, my comfort in quiet moments and my energy on long walks. Our routines are so established they feel almost invisible—morning walks, little check-ins throughout the day, the way she settles near me no matter where I am. She knows me in a way that is wordless and complete.
I find myself wondering how she will understand what’s coming. Dogs are perceptive—she already senses that something is different. Maybe it’s the change in my pace, the way I rest more, the subtle shift in energy in the house. Sometimes she looks at me with a softness that feels almost knowing.
Balancing time between Ella and Amber is something I think about often. Not in a worried way, but in a thoughtful one. I want Amber to feel secure, still important, still loved in the same steady way she always has been. I picture introducing them, carefully, gently. Letting Amber sniff, observe, adjust at her own pace.
I know the early days with a newborn can be all-consuming. Feeding, changing, soothing, repeating—it’s a rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for anything else. But I also know that Amber won’t need grand gestures. She’ll need consistency. A walk, even if it’s shorter. A moment of attention. A hand resting on her head while I sit with Ella.
Maybe our routines will change, but they don’t have to disappear. Perhaps our walks will become slower, with a buggy instead of just the two of us. Maybe there will be moments where Ella sleeps and Amber and I sit together in that familiar quiet, sharing space like we always have.
There’s something reassuring in that thought—that not everything is being replaced. Some things are expanding.
As the weeks count down, I notice how my thoughts drift more often to the small, practical details. Washing tiny clothes. Organising the space where Ella will sleep. Thinking about the hospital bag, the first night, the journey home. These tasks feel grounding, like small anchors in a sea of anticipation.
And yet, underneath all the planning, there’s a deeper current of emotion. Excitement, of course. But also a kind of awe. Life is about to change in a way that can’t be fully prepared for. No amount of reading or imagining can replicate the reality of it.
There are moments, usually in the evening, when everything feels very still. Amber curled up nearby, the house quiet, my hands resting on my belly. I feel Ella move, a gentle reminder that she’s there, growing, getting ready in her own time. And I think: seven weeks.
Seven weeks until I meet her.
Seven weeks until I step into a completely new version of myself.
It’s not a countdown in the traditional sense. It’s not about rushing toward the finish line. It’s more like a slow unfolding, each day bringing me a little closer, while also asking me to be fully present in the now.
Because this moment—this in-between—is fleeting too.
Soon, I won’t be wondering what it will feel like. I’ll be living it. Holding her. Learning her. Finding our rhythm as a new little family—me, Ella, and Amber, each of us adjusting, growing into something new together.
For now, though, it’s seven weeks. And I’m here, in the quiet anticipation of it all, learning how to slow down, how to make space, and how to hold both the excitement of what’s coming and the softness of what still is.
