How didn't I know this?

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I find myself asking very often, "How didn't I know this?" And it does not come from an arrogant place of thinking I know it all or should know it all, but from sheer disbelief that I was somehow forced to discover things firsthand at such a vulnerable moment—where physical strength and mental health are pushed to their limits, reaching new and undiscovered heights.

Details that would have been not just useful but comforting (to say the least) to know beforehand. Let’s say, a little heads-up would have been very much appreciated. And it starts early on—beginning in conception, continuing through pregnancy, and somehow amplifying during the postpartum phase.

For example, during my pregnancy, I clearly remember the 20 times a day I panic-googled things like "Why does my discharge have a different consistency?" "Is this shooting pain normal?" or the ever-so-pleasant "Why haven’t I pooped in days?" And of course, we all know better than to Google, māmas—but honestly, I just didn’t know what else to do. And if I may be honest, most of the time, it helped.

I want to emphasise that I have been blessed with an incredible sister, mother, and grandmother—women who have given me unconditional love and support since day one and were more than present during my pregnancy. Yet, despite this, the sharing, the knowledge, the memories were either somehow unspoken, forgotten, or simply not permitted to be shared. I don’t believe this came from a bad place or a desire to keep me in the dark. Quite the opposite—it may have been a form of protection or reserve. Or perhaps even shame?

It could be the ongoing practice of silencing these experiences or not being given the language to describe and share them. For some, it may stem from the belief that pregnancy and birth are miracles not to be tainted by "complaints." Or from the deeply ingrained, practical mindset that this is simply what you do—bring life into the world, endure, and move on.

The truth is, postpartum hit me like a bus. The only difference is that I was lucky enough to find certain truths to brace for impact. Not every mother experiences the same postpartum reality—the spectrum is wide—but there are some universal, uncomfortable truths I wish I had heard directly rather than through endless Instagram scrolls or, worse, while living them in real-time.

Like, for some, the traumatic first poop after birth (sorry, māmas, I know I’ve said poop twice, but bowel movements can be a big one—no pun intended). Or how swollen my vulva would be after a vaginal birth and how uncomfortable it was to sit, to dress. Or how difficult, challenging, and at times incredibly painful breastfeeding could be. Especially how the lack of sleep and hormonal shifts could make me feel literally deranged—doubting everything I did and, at times, tainting my experience.

Looking back, I can understand how this information could feel fear-inducing during pregnancy. But there is so much strength in conversation and shared knowledge. Whether it’s to ease the fear by knowing you’re not alone, to keep you from having to figure things out in a sleep-deprived haze while desperately keeping your baby alive, or simply to feel supported. Here’s the thing: knowing doesn’t make it worse. Knowing prepares you. It gives you tools, allows you to reach out for the right support, and even helps you navigate—or avoid—some of the hardest parts. Because these things were real, but they didn’t have to be as hard as they were. Conversation and shared knowledge don’t just brace you for impact—they can also provide real solutions. There are ways to ease these challenges, to soften the blows. Lactation consultants, pelvic floor therapists, postpartum doulas—specialists who can guide you through and help lighten the load.

Trust me, māmas—I’m not someone who needs to be surrounded by a big group of friends. But during those times (and even now, two years in), I’ve felt the desperate need for company—for help—and still struggle to ask for it.

It’s comforting to see people are rallying to change this—building community, creating safe spaces for discussion, and bringing together science-backed knowledge and ancestral wisdom. And while we still have a long way to go, our small contribution to this challenging yet rewarding mission comes in the form of a meal.

One of the things I loved learning in preparation for birth—and something that became a strong source of support and relief—was the art of meal prep and postpartum-aiding nutrition. My experience navigating postpartum was tough, and as an expat in Amsterdam, it was lonely. That’s why my mission to create a line of support became so strong and apparent.

And this is exactly why Aleid and I created Feeding Māma—to help ease those fragile first weeks, because I know exactly how that feels.

In some cultures, food has been one of those powerful sources of passed down knowledge, helping with the battle wounds of birth, hormonal imbalances, and even lactation. But beyond its physical benefits, postpartum nutrition also offers something just as valuable: a hand. A way to take one task off the list—for you, for your partner—reassuring you that at least one thing is taken care of.

So that if postpartum does hit like a bus, at least there’s something warm, nourishing, and delicious to lift you up and make you feel supported. And to be honest? Just to take things off your plate—literally. Because in those moments, even the smallest relief of knowing you were prepared and are doing what is right for you and your kiddo can make all the difference.

Maria 

Dear Aleid,

You knew I would be posting this week, but you definitely didn’t know that I was going to make this post about you.

To everyone who doesn’t know us, this is Aleid. Aleid has been cooking for mothers during the postpartum period for more than two and a half years. I met Aleid at a time in my life where I was learning the true power of support.

After a severe brain injury in 2020, nine months of rehabilitation, and two years away from work, I became pregnant. And as if there was a silver lining to my accident, I can confidently say that I found the power of support.

Before my accident, I felt invincible. I believed asking for help was not an option, and I felt I needed to prove to the world that I could do everything on my own. But my journey with my injury taught me the importance of self-compassion, self-care, and, most importantly, the value of nutrition. Yes, even our brains need the right nutrients to function!

I was fortunate to have the time during my pregnancy to research and learn about pregnancy and postpartum care—something not every māma has, especially in today’s fast-paced world. It was during this time I learned about the importance of the first 40 days, the sacred postpartum period. So rooted within my own Latin American Indigenous culture, but yet so unknown and disconnected to my upbringing and current living.

During my surprise baby shower, a strong māma gifted me the life-changing book The First Forty Days: The Essential Art of Nourishing the New Mother by Heng Ou, Amely Greeven, and Marisa Belger. This piece of literary wisdom opened the door to my search for postpartum nutrition and support. In this search, I found Aleid and Feeding Māma. At the time, Aleid wasn't even a mother yet, but she had studied Chinese and Chinese medicine and felt called to bring traditional postpartum care to mothers in Amsterdam—a practice that was not yet established aside from the traditions of bringing dishes to new growing families to help carry the load of those tough, sleepless, and busy postpartum days.

Through her studies, Aleid created a mission to nourish mothers during the first 40 days—a concept rooted deeply in Chinese tradition. Through this period, she tailor-made weekly packages that reassured a māma would get exactly what she needed, from wound recovery to blood replenishment and all those battle wounds we so desperately need to heal. She was running a pilot program, gathering feedback from mothers, and I was one of her first lucky clients.

I asked Aleid if she could bring me the food earlier than the usual two weeks before my due date, as I had a feeling my baby would come sooner. She kindly agreed. The food would be frozen, ready for when I needed it.

When the day came, I was so excited, but I wasn’t prepared for the impact her delivery would have. My doorbell rang, and I struggled to make it to the door—trust me, māmas, I was HUGE! From the shortness of breath to the pressure between my legs to the feeling of carrying a crate of beer all day long, everyday things like opening the door became a bit more challenging.

And there she was, this beautiful blonde ray of sunshine. She had just parked her bike in front of my house, and with her came a gorgeous picnic basket filled with nourishing food and packed with the very much needed intangible ingredient of care. It was mid-October, and I was missing the summer, but the moment I saw that basket, I was transported back to warm summer days spent in the park, basking in the sun while carrying my little one inside and dreaming about one day showing her how amazing it feels to be barefoot in the grass.

Aleid’s presence brought me comfort. She was kind, loving, and positive, calming all the nerves that inevitably accompany the last weeks of pregnancy. When I opened the basket, I saw the most thoughtful array of food—broths, snacks, teas, breakfast bowls—and a beautiful menu that explained each dish’s benefits. It felt like the picnic days at the park but taken to another level!

This wasn’t just food; it was a way of taking care of myself. It brought relief, knowing I would nourish myself and my baby during this sacred time.

After thanking Aleid and exchanging kind words, we hugged, and she left. As I closed the door, I felt peace, excitement, and a deep sense of preparation. For the first time, in all the pregnancy and mother-to-be doubt, I felt like I had done something right.

I remember texting my best friend in South America, who had just given birth two months earlier, showing her my food delivery. She was in awe and a bit envious that she didn’t have this experience in her postpartum days.

My baby didn’t come early—Juno arrived two days after my due date after more than 30 hours of induced and odysseic labor. My first meal in the hospital was a beautiful bone broth Aleid had made for me. I’d brought it along with me to ensure I had the best possible first meal, and it was such a relief! Especially when I saw that my first meal was going to be a dry cracker filled with pink sugar toppings to celebrate, a not-so-happy-looking cheese sandwich, and a tiny bottle of champagne. Once again, I felt Aleid’s support, even from afar.

Two weeks later, Aleid returned with my next order of food. She met Juno, and we briefly talked about my birth. Having experienced it firsthand, I now truly understood the importance of the nourishing meals she provided me. Those breakfast bowls, bone broths, and snacks kept me going through the overwhelming hunger that comes with breastfeeding. But also, it was a true relief for my husband when time was scarce, and so convenient for my one-handed escapades. Cause you all know in those first weeks you learn the masterful art of carrying a baby in one hand and doing everything you can possibly imagine with the other.

That hug with Aleid felt different this time—I was so grateful for everything she had done.

Our connection deepened, and as a mother myself, I knew I wanted to contribute to her mission. Together, we’ve worked hard on Feeding Māma for the past two and a half years, building the business while navigating life as a new mom—diaper changes, sleepless nights (yes—after two years she is still not a good sleeper), and the daily challenges of parenting while trying to keep a full-time job.

To all the māmas we’ve fed in these past two and a half years—thank you. Thank you for trusting us and letting us be a part of your brave and vulnerable journey. We are so grateful for your support and patience.

Aleid, we’ve shared health setbacks, pregnancy loss, and joyful moments, like the anticipation of your own baby. You’ve given me purpose and filled the void of wanting to give back to other mothers. 

This journey has taught me the power of a village—we all need support. We need hands to help raise our babies.  The modern world often disconnects us from the networks we once had. But together, we’re building that village anew. And now, as you await your baby’s arrival any second, I can’t wait to be there for you.

To all the new māmas out there who are just getting to know us, thank you for being patient as we continue to grow and refine Feeding Māma. We’re so excited to share more of our journey with you.

Remember, māma, you are not alone—even in the moments that feel the hardest. Accepting help is not a sign of weakness but a reflection of your strength. Building your village and treating yourself right during this sublime and bananas time will be one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself and your baby. 

Maria