When I became a mother, I expected the sleepless nights. I expected the endless cycle of diapers, nursing, naps, and wondering if I was doing everything right.

I didn’t expect the loneliness.

Ironically, I didn’t really feel it when Baby J was born in Washington, D.C.

Life looked different there. Even though I wasn’t working after losing my job at USAID, I still had pieces of my old life holding me together. There were happy hours with friends, weekend brunches, and early dinners with neighbors. My former USAID colleagues would check in on me. I had a wonderful moms’ group where everyone was navigating the same stage of life. Friends kept up with me through texts throughout the week.

I wasn’t alone, even when I was home with a newborn.

Then we moved to San Antonio.

Only a month in, I’m beginning to understand a different kind of isolation.

Most days revolve around keeping a tiny human and three dogs alive. Two are ours, and the third belongs to my brother while he relocates overseas to prepare for our eventual move. Between feedings, walks, naps, and trying to keep everyone happy, the days disappear before I know it.

The clock isn’t measured in hours anymore but in wake windows. Every outing becomes a logistical puzzle. Can we make it there before nap time? Will she fall asleep in the car? How long is the drive? Do I have enough time to feed her before we leave?

Something as simple as driving across town can consume half of a wake window.

We try to make Mondays at the Capital One Café happen, just to get out of the house. Sometimes there’s another outing during the week. But suburban life means everything requires getting into the car, and those short windows between naps disappear quickly.

Without a full-time job, there also aren’t coworkers to chat with over coffee or meetings that naturally introduce you to new people. In the suburbs, it’s surprisingly easy to spend an entire day speaking only to your baby, your dogs, and the one adult who lives in your house.

What I’ve realized is that this season of life isn’t defined by just one major change—it’s several happening all at once. I became a mother. I lost a career that had given me purpose, structure, and daily interaction with people I genuinely cared about. I moved halfway across the country, away from a community I had spent years building. And now, I’m learning how to navigate motherhood while trying to rebuild a sense of belonging from scratch.

I didn’t realize how much my career had provided community until it disappeared.

What surprises me most is that I’m someone who genuinely enjoys being with my daughter. I love our walks, reading books together, introducing new foods, and watching her discover the world.

But loving motherhood doesn’t erase the need for connection.

Lately, I’ve found myself searching for places to belong.

I’m looking at enrolling Baby J in a weekly swim class. Maybe another baby activity. I’ve even caught myself considering joining a church—not necessarily because my faith has changed, but because churches often provide something many suburbs don’t: built-in community for young families.

Then another thought creeps in.

Is it worth investing in friendships here if this is only a temporary stop? We’re hoping to relocate to Southeast Asia within the next six to twelve months. If this chapter is temporary, should I put down roots?

I know the logical answer is yes.

Community doesn’t have to be permanent to matter.

Neither do friendships.

Still, it’s hard to convince yourself to start over when you know you’ll eventually say goodbye again.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion because I’m still living this.

Maybe that’s the point.

So much of motherhood is filled with conversations about sleep schedules, feeding, milestones, and developmental leaps. We spend far less time talking about what happens to the mother’s social world after the baby arrives—especially if she leaves the workforce or moves away from her support system.

The isolation doesn’t always arrive immediately.

Sometimes it waits until the boxes are unpacked.

Until the novelty wears off.

Until your baby settles into a routine.

Until you realize you’ve gone days without having a meaningful conversation with another adult.

I’m beginning to understand that building a village isn’t something that happens once.

Sometimes you have to build it again.

And again.

For my daughter’s sake, I want her to grow up seeing community. I want her to see friendships, neighbors who become family, and people who show up for one another.

But I’m also realizing something just as important.

Mothers need a village too.

Not because we’re incapable of doing it on our own, but because we were never meant to.