The Candle is Lit

Hi there.

Welcome to a little place I’ve carved out just for us.

Take a moment to get settled. Fix the pillows supporting you and your little one. Make sure you have your drink of choice nearby, maybe something warm, maybe something sweet. Let your shoulders drop, your breath deepen, your heartbeat slow.

Now that you’re comfortable, I can introduce myself. Call me Milk. If you are wondering why that would be fair. The truth is simple. Milk was the only thing I craved during pregnancy. Every night, in those hushed, sacred hours before dawn, I’d pour myself a glass of whole milk and let the stillness settle around me. I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything as soul-healing as milk under the moonlight while waiting for the arrival of someone who would change everything, my daughter.

I have been blessed with protecting and raising a beautiful baby girl born in April of 2025. Over these last six months, I’ve tried desperately to find a proper community. A place where I could share both the struggles and the sacred, the ache and the awe. A place that didn’t feel filtered, performative, or unsafe. A place that let me be real.

I never found it. Not one that truly felt safe.

Safe not only from online predators, of course, but also from judgment. The kind that seeps in quietly from others who come from a more privileged state of mind.

When I say “privileged state of mind,” I don’t just mean money or material comfort. It’s not about status or circumstance. Mental illness and trauma do not discriminate between the wealthy and the struggling. Pain is democratic like that. Still, it’s undeniable that access to help, to time, to space to heal, is a privilege in itself. And many of us, new mothers especially, don’t have that luxury.

The online groups I found were under-moderated, often not moderated at all. They were full of spam, scams, and what I can only describe as judgment disguised as advice. I never posted. My intuition whispered, “This isn’t safe,” and I’ve learned to listen to her.

You see, I searched so hard because I don’t have a village, not in any sense of the word. And if you’re here, maybe you don’t either.

I was told once, rather bluntly, that I should “go find a village” and stop talking about my child so much. The irony was unbearable, because that person was my only village. When they said that, I knew I didn’t have one at all.

But things have changed, slowly. My village is growing now, one soul at a time. And I want this space to be part of that growth, not just for me, but for you, too.

Because I can’t stand the thought of other mothers, women like me, scrolling through the night at 2:00 a.m., searching for comfort through bleary eyes while nursing through cracked nipples, tears pooling, the world pressing down on their chests.

So, this is my offering:
A safe place. A soft place. A candle burning low but steady.

A place to share my stories and my healing, but also a place for yours.

Write it all down. The things that ache, the things that scare you, the things that have no neat ending. Let it spill out between tears, snot, milk, and spit-up on that worn nightgown you haven’t had time to change. And when you’re ready, send it into the universe, or here, where someone will read it and whisper, “Me too.”

Let go. Make room for the love that’s waiting to pour in. For the warmth that wants to return to you.

This is Moonlight&Milk.

A place for your weary heart to rest while your little one nourishes themselves or sleeps safe against your chest. A place where imperfection is sacred, where we learn to mother ourselves as tenderly as we mother them.

A place to remember that even in the dark, there’s always light, sometimes soft, sometimes flickering, but always there.

Welcome home.

The candle is lit.
I hope you stay a while. 🌙

This is our hearth — pull up a chair, share your thoughts, and add your flame to the light.