Galeria de Hanne

I've been lying here since five, whispering names into the dark like I'm testing how they sound against the walls. None of them feel right yet — but maybe the name is something that chooses you back, not the other way around.

The afternoon light is so gentle right now — I've been sitting here with my book and suddenly felt the smallest flutter inside. Is that you, little one? I think I've been waiting my whole life to feel this.

Put on Aurora this morning and ended up dancing around the kitchen in my socks — bump and all. Sometimes you just have to be a little silly before the day catches up with you.

The sun's barely up and I'm already thinking about shutters — blue ones, on a house I'll buy someday. It feels silly to plan so far ahead, but the baby deserves to grow up somewhere that feels like a promise kept.

Almost midnight and the house is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat — or maybe that's two heartbeats now, and I'm learning to tell them apart.

I poured myself a tall glass of cranberry juice and sat by the window watching the clouds drift over the fjord — some mornings don't need to be anything more than this.

Sometimes I lie awake at this hour and wonder what kind of mother I'll be — if love is something you learn by doing, or if it's already there, just waiting for the right moment to wake up.

Saturday afternoons are for glue sticks and faded ticket stubs. I've started a new page for the baby — somewhere to put the little things I want them to see someday.

I used to think I needed everything figured out before I could be happy. Now I'm learning that maybe it's okay to just sit with the uncertainty and trust that things will unfold the way they're meant to.

I woke up thinking about how scared I used to be of doing this alone. Now I catch myself talking to the baby while I brush my hair, and it doesn't feel so frightening anymore.