By Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
@kknowlezeller

There’s a knock at the door. Attached to my breast, not even a day old, my daughter, Charlotte, sucks, and I attempt to cover up with the white hospital blanket as Stephen, my husband, calls “Come in!” 

Two awake and polished adults walk in, one carrying a notepad, the other a camera. 

“Congratulations! We’re the hospital photographers. We’d like to take your baby’s picture.” I see Charlotte suck a few times before completely closing her eyes. I glance at Stephen who lifts his shoulders in a shrug. In the post-delivery fog and the newborn euphoria I say, “Sure, we’ll take photos.” I want to capture this moment with our daughter. Our first child. I want to remember the wrinkles in her skin, the skinny fingers with nails, and her full head of brown hair. I want to capture how I see her in all her newness. I want to remember these fuzzy moments of becoming a mother.  

They return an hour later. Stephen and I are still mechanical in our movements as we maneuver Charlotte, but the photographer’s ease relaxes me as I hand Charlotte to her. Her eyes open abruptly as she’s moved away from the comfort of my chest. The photographer lays her at the foot of the bed wrapped in a green and white swaddle blanket and snaps photo after photo. With each click of the camera, Charlotte's eyes remain open. Alert. Attentive. Aware of her surroundings. Almost like she's issuing us a declaration: I am here. I see you. 

Taking the camera away from her eyes for a moment, the photographer says, “I’ve never seen a baby with her eyes open for so long at such a young age.”   

Something in my daughter’s eyes—the way she’s focused, the way she’s come into my life both known and unknown, gift and mystery—reminds me of the first day of my five-hundred mile pilgrimage across Northern Spain along the Camino de Santiago a decade ago. The climb up and over the Pyrenees mountains was thick with fog and haze, as thick as the mental and emotional postpartum fog I feel now. 

***

I woke to the rustle of sleeping bags and hushed voices. I sat up with a stretch on the top bunk bed, smiled, and remembered where I was: about to begin my pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago in Spain. 

My thoughts drifted to the days ahead and to the questions for which I didn’t have answers. Would I connect with other pilgrims? Would I get lost? Would my body handle walking every day? Would I be able to disconnect fully from email and social media? Would anything happen to my parents? The questions loomed as high as the summit across the Pyrenees that lie ahead. 

After I dressed and ate breakfast, I turned to the hostel hosts and heard their words, Buen Camino!—literally, “good way.” Slinging my backpack over my shoulders, I turned toward the way. I kept their words close to my heart, repeating them over and over again. The phrase is used as a greeting, blessing, and benediction: a way to say hello to pilgrims, give them courage for the way, and pray for their safety and arrival. On this first day it became my prayer: Give me a good way. Lord, be with me.  

My newfound Swiss friend, Marial, left the hostel at the same time I did. In front of and behind us were fellow pilgrims, identifiable by their backpacks and walking sticks. Ahead I saw the sun beginning to push through a break in the clouds. At this early morning hour I needed my raincoat to keep the chill off. Turning to Marial I asked, “What time is it?” 

She looked at me and declared, “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I felt her words like a slap in the face, a firm reminder that I had a lot to learn about being a pilgrim. How did this woman, younger than me, already know this fundamental truth? I didn’t respond as we walked and faced the Pyrenees mountains. At home I was so accustomed to knowing the time and filling every hour of the day. It was going to take some time before the way of the pilgrim became my way. 

I climbed higher and higher up through the Pyrenees. I could only see one step in front of me. The fog was so thick, it felt like I was floating on the clouds. I couldn’t see much of the path, and this required me to use my other senses. I felt the wind on my face and the slight drizzle from the clouds. I heard a bell in the distance and smelled wet grass. This was why I had traveled across the world: for the chance to be fully present to the path beneath my feet. 

I kept walking forward and settled into a new rhythm, now content with slow and steady. Aware of my surroundings, every step a declaration: I am here. 

I didn’t take pictures, knowing they wouldn’t fully capture the scene. But the slow walking, listening, and leaning into the ground form mental snapshots of the first day, depicting the slow becoming of a person who connects with the world around her and takes the time to pay attention to the way the ground feels under her feet. 

I don’t know when I officially became a pilgrim—with the initial desire to walk the Camino, the buying of my plane ticket, reading book upon book, placing the backpack on my shoulders for the first time, the first step on French soil, or the first step on the way itself. Could it be all of these moments and more? The slow accruing of an identity rooted not in what I can accomplish but in who I am called to be: someone who sees the world with attention and awareness and a desire to see each person I meet as a fellow wanderer along the way. 

***

“She’s doing so great,” the photographer says. “Let’s get a picture of Charlotte with Mom and Dad.” I turn to Stephen and smile hearing our new names, Mom and Dad.

There’s something about hearing “Mom” spoken out loud that unlocks something in me, releases a tension I didn’t know I was holding. I realize I don’t need to do anything to be her mother or earn the name, I am her mother. The photographer swoops Charlotte up to place her back in my arms, her head leaning on my chest facing the camera. Nestled in my arms, Charlotte knows this fact too and feels safety found against my body. Stephen stands up behind me, then leans down for a kiss. Charlotte’s eyes are focused on the photographer, open and attentive. Mom, Dad, and Baby together, captured with the click of the camera.  

When we receive the pictures a few weeks later, still unsure about life with a newborn but gaining more and more confidence with every cry, diaper change, and feeding, I am struck not only by Charlotte’s attentiveness, but by my face. There’s something else there. A knowing, a love, an awareness. I am a mother. 

I don’t know when I officially became a mother—with the desire to conceive, the first line of pink on the test, hearing the heartbeat, a first purchase of clothes, filling the baby registry, announcing to family and friends, in the delivery room with the first cry, or holding my daughter for the first time? Was I mother through all these moments? A slow accruing of an identity bound to another being, forever changing how I see the world? The call of mother to see the world with attention and awareness, to love as I’ve never loved before.

Guest essay written by Kimberly Knowle-Zeller. Kimberly is a writer, pastor, wife, and mother of two. She lives with her family in Cole Camp, Missouri. When she’s not at the park with her children, walking around town, or tending to the garden, you can find her with a pen and paper. Or a good book. And a cup of coffee. She believes in the power of words, unearthing the extraordinary in the ordinary, and encouraging others to follow their passions. You can read more at her website, follow her on Instagram, or sign up for her monthly newsletter.