I wasn't pregnant when I first interviewed for the role of CRM Manager at Haute Hijab. Well, I was, technically — I just didn't know it yet. I received the offer from Melanie and Ahmed a few weeks later, just days after my first positive pregnancy test (I took about 10, just to be sure) and I asked them if I could think it over.

"Would it be dishonest to accept a new job knowing I'll need to take maternity leave in eight months?" I asked my husband Chris. We hadn't even told our friends and family yet and didn't plan to until the heartbeat was confirmed.

Long story short, I did accept the job offer, and when I finally revealed my big news, our HH team was elated for me. My anxiety lifted. I went to work the next day with my baby bump on full display. My nausea was gone, my pregnancy glow had finally appeared, and I was ready to finally enjoy that second trimester energy I'd heard so much about.

But then… the unthinkable happened.

News of a novel virus was splattered all over my Facebook timeline. The word "pandemic" was showing up everywhere. I entered my third trimester in early March 2020, just as things started getting serious in the U.S. with the COVID-19 global pandemic. March 13 was my last day in the office. I'll never forget it. I packed up a few items from my desk, thinking I'd be back after maternity leave (ha!), and went home to set up my (temporary) home office.

To this day, I still haven't changed a diaper in a public restroom. I've only nursed my son Sebastian in public a couple of times. Sebastian has only sat in a restaurant high chair one time, and he’s never been on an airplane. The anxiety is real. How do you go from parenting in isolation to parenting among other people? Am I doing any of this right, I wondered? I haven't had the opportunity to observe many other parents, and very few have seen me as a parent.

We are not meant to parent in isolation, but I did. We all did — together, but apart.

The next three months after our HH office shut down were a complete blur of exhaustion, confusion, fear and excitement. I cancelled my baby shower. I told my parents I'd see them when the baby was born (another "ha!" moment looking back). I set up the baby's room. I took pictures and videos of my growing belly to show my friends and family who would never get to feel him kick or see me in my cute maternity jeans. It was sad. This was my first child, and it just wasn’t how I imagined any of it.

But, we were lucky. We never got sick and my pregnancy was uneventful in all the ways you hope it will be.

Sebastian was born in June 2020 in New York – the height of the first wave. My husband was allowed to join me in the OR and recovery room, thankfully, but he wasn't allowed to leave. Before giving birth, we were worried I’d have to be alone, as hospital policies and rules were changing. Chris slept in the uncomfortable chair next to my bed for two nights, holding and cuddling Sebastian when I wasn't nursing him. I'm so grateful I wasn't alone, but I'll forever wonder what sharing the joy of our newborn son with our friends and family would have been like.

On the other hand, I saw the incredible blessing in our bizarre birth experience. We got to hold our son as long as we wanted. We stared at him as long as we wanted. We spent those whole three days in the hospital together as a family of three, uninterrupted, without any distractions.

When we got home, we immediately called Chris's parents, who live about two hours away, and asked them to come help. We knew it was a risk, but we couldn't do this alone. I couldn't do this alone. They stayed with us for a week. I cried the day they left, not just because I was hormonal and exhausted and didn't know what the heck I was doing, but because I didn't know when we'd see them again – or anyone.

I missed my own mom and dad so much it hurt. I felt robbed of that bonding time we should’ve had, that time they should’ve spent with their first grandchild. But they were in Florida, and it was too risky to travel. We were alone again, and for how long this time, we didn't know.

As the days and weeks went on, Chris and I grew more confident in our parenting abilities. Sebastian was sleeping through the night, breastfeeding was really starting to click, and my body was starting to feel like it was "mine" again. When my maternity leave ended, I was able to continue breastfeeding since I was working from home. I became a pro at working one-handed. Sebastian napped on me exclusively.

We took daily walks to the pier where he could look out and see the Statue of Liberty in the distance. Don't get me wrong, the days were long and they were hard. My apartment was (and still is) a complete disaster. I can't remember if I put on makeup or even did my hair. I was exhausted. But I also was so happy. We had found our rhythm, and all three of us were drunk in each other's love 24/7.

We got the first dose of the vaccine almost exactly a year later in March 2021. It was another day I'll never forget. Tears of joy streamed down my face as I nursed Sebastian, giving him as much antibody-filled liquid gold as I could muster.

But among my tears of joy also fell tears of sadness and dread. With this vaccine and the pandemic coming to an end (or so we thought – yes, another "ha!" moment), what would become of the quiet little world we cultivated over the past year? How do we do this parenting thing around other people?

But it's more than that. Being a pandemic parent means never really learning how to parent while being you. The pandemic stripped me of my most cherished hobbies and passions, and while that's certainly not unique to me, it's a different experience entirely when you have a newborn at home.

In some ways, motherhood fundamentally changes you, and you already have to alter your priorities and give up (to an extent) things you did pre-baby. But pre-pandemic, you were able to include your children in the things you do and gradually introduce them to the things you love – going shopping, visiting museums, having dinner with friends, whatever. But when there’s a pandemic, you're forced to relinquish it all. So instead of Sebastian assimilating into the life we had, we had to create an entirely new one devoid of other people.

I spent the first few days and weeks of motherhood grieving the loss of the life I once had as well as the moments and memories that never were and will never be.

That said, the ability to lose yourself entirely in your child is a beautiful privilege. How many working parents can say they were able to spend almost every waking moment with their child for the first 365 days of their life? I am blessed in more ways than I can count. But now it's time to (safely) emerge from our quiet little corner of the world.

Every day I'm learning how to make time for myself again and finding new ways to nourish my mind, body, and spirit. I'm re-learning how to connect with other people and actually have real conversations with them (instead of just always talking about my son). I'm slowly but surely getting better about leaving Sebastian with a (vaccinated) caregiver for a few hours.

This separation isn't just healthy for me, it's also critical for Sebastian's development. He's 14 months old now, just on the brink of so many new skills and discoveries. By reconnecting with my old self and rediscovering my new self, I'm helping Sebastian cultivate his own sense of self. How amazing is that?!

In a few weeks Sebastian will be starting daycare, and soon those early days of pandemic parenting will feel like a distant memory. There is still a lot of anxiety, with the Delta variant, and a fear that daycare will close shortly after it opens. Anxiety doesn’t go away easily, especially for those of us who birthed babies during this pandemic. If this was your experience, I’m sure you understand what I mean. I feel a connection with anyone who had the experience we had.

But our little family will forever be shaped by what we went through these past 18 months, and the same goes for the thousands of other families like us. And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all: this whole time we were never really alone.