cyclical care

a sliding doors/sheets moment

My new book — The Complete Guide to Postpartum - a mother-focused companion for life after birth — is on shelves July 1st in Australia, the UK and the US. For more mother-related letters, I write weekly over at

Dear new mum

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When I first became a mother (almost 18 years ago), the only books relevant to postpartum were all baby-focused. To be honest, if you walk into a bookshop today and head to the parenting section, not a lot has changed. This is simply a reflection of how many societies operate: we effectively forget about the new mother.

But we all need care, don’t we. In all the seasons we live through — whether we’re parents or not — there are countless weeks when a meal on the doorstep and a message to check-in is vitalising, bolstering support. It reminds us that we’re not alone. Despite our collective desire for independence, we can’t dismiss our evolutionary history. We have evolved to be together and care for each other. Social connection warms the heart and reminds us what matters.

I know I write a lot about how to care for yourself and I do this because often, we forget what care is. Basic, human care (not the capitalist self-care we often turn to) is what we all need and deserve to live well. It’s the simple things: a nourishing bowl of food, sunlight on bare limbs, settled sleep, moving intuitively and digging in the garden. When we prioritise this for ourselves, we become strong enough to care for others.

A few months ago an artist I follow on Instagram announced that she’d just moved house and was settling into a new town. She shared a video of the apple trees in her garden and the washing on the line and as the white sheets billowed I could see the same mountain that I look at from my bedroom window.

Mainlanders are drawn to each other on this island so I didn’t hesitate to message her and suggest a coffee. A week later we met at the cafe in town and she detailed her recent interstate move while freshly postpartum with her third baby. I told her that I was in between work projects and in a very different season of motherhood; I had the time and capacity to help out. I also reminded her not to clean her house before I visited. “Family homes are always messy,” I said. “It is a mess of life and living.”

My teenage daughter is now her babysitter, offering much-needed help during the witching hours a few evenings a week. I’ve stepped in as a multi-hyphenate: neighbour/friend/established mother/volunteer doula offering support in the form of maternal care; a necessity for all new mothers in the tender fourth trimester.

When I first visited her home we talked as she bounced from one end of the kitchen to the other, her eyes and ears on the two older kids as she rocked her newborn to sleep. She wasn’t sure what to do when I started washing dishes, nor did she anticipate the tea I handed her, the banana bread I’d baked, the reassurance that if she ever needed anything and it was too hard to leave the house, I could deliver it.

In the weeks that followed I continued cooking for her, connected her with my GP and checked in via text, reminding her that I too have baskets of washing lining my hallway and my youngest child is eight.

Mothers are neurologically wired to reach out for support after birth. This is informed by oxytocin, the hormone that peaks in birth and postpartum, increasing trust and empathy and encouraging social connection. We are an interdependent species and social care and connection in postpartum is a basic biological need. But we’re isolated in nuclear homes and caught up in the the busyness of life. The village has been eradicated and new mothers bear the brunt of this loss.

Care prompts oxytocin to flow and it’s bidirectional; we feel it when we give and receive care. There is so much talk about cortisol and how detrimental it is to our wellbeing, but I think we need to focus on the healing powers of oxytocin, the hormone that relaxes and soothes us, providing us with a gooey sense of comfort and ease, helps us connect with each other in meaningful ways — especially when the world feels increasingly fractured.

Georgie – like all mothers in postpartum – needed practical help in the form of a listening ear, an extra set of hands and a weekly delivery of a homemade shepherd's pie. When she felt a little stronger and had established a somewhat steady rhythm of days at home, we started walking along the inlets that separate the town from the sea.

We talked about the similarities in our creative process; her, the layers of acrylics to form a painterly aesthetic; me the rhythm of words to capture a moment. She tells me about the deep frustration when she can’t get the face quite right, and I admit that whenever I’m writing – whatever I’m writing – doubt sits alongside me like a petulant child.

Her house is perched on top of the hill and looks out over the town; mine is tucked into the base. She paints in the corner of her living room; banksia, eucalypt and golden puffs of wattle spilling from vases with a baby strapped to her chest, a toddler under the table, and a preschooler wanting his own brush. I admire her for finding pockets of time to create in the middle of things but she admits it’s vital for her sense of self, beneath and beyond the mother she is.

When I visit I’m reminded of the intense physicality of early motherhood. It’s easy to forget how arduous the lifting, holding, soothing, feeding, rocking and changing is. There is no reprieve from the necessary work of it – day and night, all through the seasons – and the inevitable hiccups in the form of snotty noses, small hurts that need a bandaid, and restless nights. The relentless monotony of it is a foggy memory when we’re no longer strapping children into car seats littered with misplaced sultanas and cracker crumbs.

She tells me she doesn’t know how she’ll ever repay me and I remind her that in a few years – when she has a bit more space and time – she’ll step in to care for another mother in her orbit. This is how we change the narrative and nurture the ecology of maternal care: in practical and meaningful ways, one meal and message at a time.

“Imagine if I’d never filmed those sheets on the line,” she says.

“They were your call for help.”

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other things

• I’m not sure if it’s the winter in me but this week I started visibly mending two linen dresses and I signed up for an online basket weaving course. I know that handiwork is good for the brain (helps to slow it down and clear it out) but I’m also at the stage where I want to up-skill and have something to reach for that’s not my phone. Dr Andy Lawrence hosts Gather and Weave and she’s offered my readers a 25% discount on the course, if it’s of interest to you. Use the code: PS

• If you’re after an utterly delightful book that’s brimming with perfect dialogue, you’ll love You Are Here by David Nicholls (I’m squealing with glee while reading, it really is so lovely!)

• Loved reading about Barbara Kingsolver’s garden (and her writing, of course)

Enjoy this week as we head towards the solstice. I’m leaning into the cold and dark and having a bit of a slow time; reading, editing, tidying the bookshelves, going for early morning frosty walks. I hope you have the space to pull back a bit and honour the weariness that can intentionally descend at this time. It feels special to look to the sky and mark time; to gaze at the moon and reflect.

Till next week, take care and thank you for being here, reading my words. I never take your presence or your time for granted x