My Mother and Me. Org

There was nothing unusual about that morning.
Just me and my coffee.

A hot cup of steaming java—my daily ritual, my quiet moment before the world asked anything of me. Coffee had always been there, faithfully showing up every morning, long before the small blue-and-white stick entered my life.

And yet, once it did, everything changed.

That little stick didn’t say a word, but it spoke louder than anything ever had. It stood there, bold and undeniable, turning my familiar world upside down in seconds. Still, it was early—too early to fully wrap my mind around what it meant. I wasn’t ready to face it just yet.

Before that moment, self-care was second nature. Nails and toes done. Hair processed—permed, colored, switched up whenever I felt like it. Long bubble baths at the end of exhausting weeks. Trips to the brow bar where glued-on lashes were simply part of the routine. These were the small indulgences that made me feel like me.

But one day was all it took for reality to start setting in.

I made the calls. I researched, and I searched for the best OBGYN in my area—all thanks to that blue-and-white stick

When I finally reached the office, I was told the earliest appointment would be two weeks out. Two weeks felt impossible. I didn’t understand it then, but I would soon learn patience was no longer optional.

Those days were filled with waiting, worrying, and trying to keep my mind and body from running completely off the rails. I flinched at every thought, every possibility, every what if. Still, I held it together—barely.

Then the call came.

An appointment had opened up.

Relief washed over me, followed immediately by nerves. This was my first OBGYN appointment as a young adult woman, no mom by my side, no roadmap for what to expect. My nerves were shot—but there it was again. That cup of steaming black gold, grounding me, calming me, reminding me to breathe.

Appointment day arrived. I was showered, cleaned, scrubbed, shaved—every possible area covered. Hygiene: on point. Anxiety: through the roof. I followed every instruction I’d been given, doing my best to stay calm as I stepped into the unknown.

The exam came and went. The tests were done.

And then it was confirmed.

The blue-and-white stick hadn’t lied.

I wasn’t dealing with any other internal issues. It wasn’t my tubes. It wasn’t something else. Thank God! Then the Doctor stated that I was pregnant. Relief and shock collided in my chest all at once. For a brief moment, then suddenly, I could breathe again.

That’s when the doctor handed me the list.

No more chemical hair processing.
No more glued-on eyelashes.
No more soaking in bubble baths.

Okay. I could live with that.

Then came the words that made my heart drop.

No more coffee.

My mind screamed, No coffee?
How was that even possible?

The doctor explained—what caffeine could do, the risks, the importance of protecting the baby. Eat better. No alcohol. No drugs. Not even for a headache. All I heard was no, no, no.

And just like that, my once-cherished coffee ritual was gone.

Replaced by milk.
Health smoothies.
And the quiet realization that this was no longer just about me.

Somewhere between the last sip of coffee and the first “no,” motherhood had already begun.

I thought the hardest part would be the test, the waiting, or the list of restrictions. I was wrong. The hardest part was realizing that the woman I was yesterday was already changing. Somewhere between my last cup of coffee and my first appointment, a new version of me quietly stepped forward—and she was learning how to let go..