Finding Center in the Middle of Uncertainty

Imagine this scenario: you are nine months pregnant and two weeks out from the estimated delivery date of your first child. You’ve worked diligently to get everything in order—completing projects at work, preparing your team for your parental leave, setting up the nursery, and tying off any loose ends so you could enter motherhood with as much peace as possible. You did everything right.

It’s a Friday morning around 9:30 a.m. You’re at your desk, working remotely on a routine task, when an email flashes in the corner of your screen: “Notice of Layoff.”

My heart sank into my feet. For a moment, the world went completely still. Just like that, I was about to be without a job at the moment I most needed stability.

I knew public health layoffs were sweeping the country, but you’re never prepared to be the one affected. I consider myself a diligent and dependable employee. I did not expect this outcome, nor did I deserve it. The timing was devastating, even if the decision wasn’t personal. It was simply the era of government cuts, and I—working for the Department of Defense as a program health analyst—was one of those caught in the wave.

I remember grabbing my husband, who happened to be home that day. He held me tightly as I sobbed into his chest and reminded me that everything would be alright, again. He was right. When the shock settled and the tears slowed, something in me shifted. I decided to be strong for my baby, strong for myself, strong for our new family.

I was about to embark on one of the most beautiful and demanding transitions of my life. This layoff threatened the already elusive security of stability, yes—but I made a promise to myself that it wouldn’t steal the joy of becoming a mother. I would not allow fear, stress, or endless “what ifs” about finding a new job to overshadow the early moments of my son’s life.

And then he came.

On May 18th, my husband and I entered parenthood. The feeling is indescribable—this tiny human who is every part of you and yet entirely his own person. When my husband placed him on my chest, the world narrowed down to one thing: him. From that moment, my instinct was to protect, nurture, and care for him with everything in me.

I felt intentional about these three months of bonding, even as the uncertainty of having to look for work lingered in the background. I knew I would eventually need to balance being present with looking ahead, but I didn’t want to miss a moment with him. And just when I thought I had a grasp on all the emotions unfolding, life brought another wave.

Two weeks after his birth, my mother passed away. She battled the cancer until her last breath to stay with us, and then she went.

The person I longed for most—the one I wanted next to me to help guide me through early motherhood—was suddenly gone. I believe she held on long enough to meet him, to see that we were both safe, and then she quietly slipped away. The thought fills me with tears, but also with gratitude that she experienced him, even briefly.

I was navigating motherhood, grief, and the layoff all at once. It is an intense weight to carry. These emotions needed to coexist because they did happen together. There was no way around them. I didn’t have my mother’s tender love to lean on during this transition, but I had strength. I had my husband’s unwavering support. And I had this love for my son—bigger than anything I’ve ever felt—pulling me forward.

During those heavy days, my meditation program became my lifeline. Hearing my own voice through my headphones—recorded during a time when I felt calm, grounded, connected to nature—brought me back to myself. It reminded me that this too shall pass, and this too is only temporary. All of life is moving an constantly changing. I can use this change to do the things I wanted. Listening to my meditations felt like receiving a message from a wiser, steadier version of me who knew I’d need something strong to hold onto.

Each time I listened, I was transported to a simpler, more serene existence. I wasn’t going to run from the present. I didn’t run from what I felt; I acknowledged every emotion as it came. The difference was that I didn’t let myself stay stuck. Movement, progress, and presence would be my allies. Rumination and stagnation would not.

Anxiety visited often—it's natural when the future is uncertain. But meditation taught me to let those anxious thoughts pass through instead of putting down roots.

What I could control were the rhythms of my day: waking up early, getting movement in, tending to my mental health, structuring his naps based on his cues, and using the small pockets of time intentionally. Everyone said, “Rest when the baby rests,” but my version of rest was different. Rest meant completing what weighed on my mind, caring for myself, writing, or handling small tasks so I didn’t feel buried under them.

Intentional days became nonnegotiable. If my baby were content and cared for, I could recenter myself. I journaled on the harder days, leaving my thoughts on the page so they wouldn’t linger in my mind. I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew how I wanted to show up for him: calm, steady, loving - not scattered and overwhelmed.

I planned my days with flexibility, anchored by structure but not controlled by it. During this time, I also created my first Insight Timer course, Reclaiming Inner Safety, a program rooted in staying grounded when the world feels shaky. I was designing the very guidance I needed for myself—an offering for anyone who might find themselves standing on uncertain ground.

I faced a lot emotionally in that season, but slowing down my inner experience made room for healing. I learned to ride the waves instead of resisting them. I learned to tend to my inner child when she surfaced. I learned to ask for help without expecting others to fix things. And most importantly, I learned not to demand overnight answers from myself.

Everyone says the early months go by quickly—and they do. Time feels slippery, especially when layered with grief and uncertainty. But I’m doing my best to slow it all down, to stay present with what matters most, and to let the rest wait its turn.

This wave will not drown me.
I can ride it.

And in choosing to stay grounded—even when the world felt unsteady—I found pieces of myself I didn’t know I had. Presence became the one thing I could always return to. The one thing I could trust. The one thing that carried me through. Uncertainty will always be part of life, but presence is always an option. It’s the one thing I could return to, again and again.

My son is my light. He has made me better, and being his mom is the greatest honor and love I could iimagine.