#babywrapping

[diosa199]

WORKING IN UNISON

One of the things I love most about woven wraps is how they are designed to work in unison.

No single thread carries the weight.

The warp threads run the length of the fabric while the weft threads cross through them, locking together to create something stronger than either could be on their own. When force is spread evenly across the cloth, the strength is remarkable. When stress is concentrated in one small area, threads can pull, distort, or even tear.

Wrapping isn’t all that different.

One of the illustrations I often reference when learning new carries shows the wrap as one continuous piece of fabric. It helps visualize what is actually happening when we tighten from the middle out and work slack through the entire wrap job. Every section affects another section. Every pass matters.

It’s always easier said than done.

Most hobbies are.

It has been a while since I’ve sat down to write, though my eyes roll a little as I type that because if that were true, perhaps I would write more often.

Babywearing remains a very real part of our daily life. There are still multiple ups every day. But lately I’ve noticed something changing.

As July approaches, my baby is nearing eighteen months old. He is firmly entering the stage of “I can do it myself,” no longer content to simply watch his brother but determined to do everything exactly the same way.

Much of my day is now spent fostering that independence. I smile when he accomplishes something on his own. The grin that spreads across his face, sometimes accompanied by the nose wrinkle he inherited from his dad, remains one of my favorite expressions in the world.

And yet, even the most independent toddlers still need rest.

Wrap time is often protested right up until the final tie-off. Then, almost like clockwork, his head finds my chest or shoulder, a deep sigh escapes, and the fight is over.

For a little while, he lets himself be held.

And because these days feel different than they did even six months ago, I’ve noticed my wrap choices evolving too.

Summer has arrived in the Pacific Northwest in its usual indecisive fashion. Mostly mild temperatures in the sixties, scattered warm days, and enough rain mixed in to keep everyone guessing.

With the change in season has come a shift in what I’m reaching for.

Lately I’ve found myself gravitating toward wraps in the 260–270 GSM range. Thick enough to feel supportive for a toddler who is increasingly convinced he can do everything himself, but soft enough to mold comfortably around both of us.

For a long time I thought I preferred thicker wraps. The cushiness felt reassuring while I was developing my skills. But lately I’ve been appreciating what I can only describe as a softer, more bandage-like feel. Supportive without feeling bulky. Secure without feeling overly structured.

Linen has become a particular favorite.

The cooling effect is real. On warmer days there is a noticeable difference when compared to cotton. Cotton tends to warm with use, while linen feels cool almost immediately against the skin. Silk falls somewhere in between for me—cooler than cotton, though not quite as refreshing as linen. Hemp occupies its own happy middle ground, borrowing some of the coolness of linen while maintaining its characteristic support.

Wool is harder to place neatly into a category. Much depends on the blend and the weight. Some of my merino pieces can be surprisingly versatile, while the thicker wool and cashmere wraps have already been carefully packed away for winter.

At least for now.

Even though we’ll soon have a two-year-old on our hands, I have no doubt those wraps will return when the weather cools. There will be outside chores to tackle, walks to take, and adventures that are better enjoyed with a sleepy toddler snuggled close.

The changing seasons have also meant trying a few new additions.

One of the more recent arrivals was a Trias Orchid wool ring sling. The ring sling turned out to be a little different than I expected, definitely at far end of the wool spectrum that I’ve experienced, in a great way. It feels almost sweater-like—substantial without being overwhelming. We used it recently for some sleepy snuggles, and it held a twenty-five-pound toddler beautifully.

If I could change anything, I might wish for slightly larger rings to help the thicker fabric glide more easily. But that feels like a small complaint for something that performs its job so well. Not sure if I will get my return

featured is my newest linen, silk blend LennyLamb Tamino, enjoying the diagonal stretch and moldable wrapping qualities as I break this fabric in to a soft puddle. Didy Loto lunea which I am also breaking in to ultimate usability. This silk and hemp blend is a pocket weave trends to run a tad warmer with the double layer and hemp. It also helps foa wrap with a lower gsm of 250 and give it a cushy feel. Tamino is a regular weave and its stark differences each both wraps give such unique qualities despite both being silk blends. Didy Ruby-gold 1975 old standard was a size 3 that I feel so fortunate to have gotten, not many around in the United States. It’s similar to copper os but that ruby color has been just a gem to wrap with and admire its beauty. This wrap will transform into a scarf as time progresses. Last but definitely not least is Didymos 2010 silk fish. It’s also a silk blend that is showcases the fibers amazing properties of strength, subtle softness, and a light and airy feel that allows for a comfortable carry and the completion of chores. This wrap is a diamond in the rough hiding behind a natural beige mom aesthetic, shimmering fish swimming along offering familiarity and a soft place to nap.

[diosa199]

In a different light

Late night musings have become a familiar rhythm for me.

When the rest of the house is asleep, my mind doesn’t always follow. It wanders through the next day’s appointments, the tasks still waiting, the quiet mental checklist that never quite finishes. And lately, it hasn’t stopped there.

It’s hard to ignore the current climate of the world. War. Division. A heaviness that seems to sit just beneath the surface of everything. Some days it feels easier to put blinders on, to stay small and focused on my own home for the sake of my mental health. But even then, it lingers.

And strangely, I’ve felt it even within the world of babywearing.

A space that is usually filled with encouragement, shared knowledge, and support from all different perspectives has started to shift in small ways. Conversations that once felt light now carry tension. Questions about tariffs, shipping restrictions, and access quickly turn into frustration, sometimes even anger. It’s not hard to understand why.

People are scared. Things feel out of control.

And that energy has a way of filtering down, even into something as simple and beautiful as woven wraps.

It sits quietly behind my everyday life. Between caring for my babies, tending to my mother, and trying to hold everything together, I feel it. I find myself kissing my children a little longer, trying to live in a way that feels grounded in gratitude.

Parenthood already comes with its own ebb and flow. Adding the weight of the world on top of that can feel… complicated.

But still, I keep trying.

And I keep wrapping.

Because one of the biggest surprises in my babywearing journey has been how often I’m wrong about a wrap before I even try it.

Sometimes it’s as simple as color. What looks one way in photos arrives and reveals something completely different in person. The intricate web of warp and weft threads shifts the tone entirely, creating depth that a camera just can’t capture.

The most striking example for me was Forest Glow in the 1975 weave. In photos it reads as this luminous emerald, almost glowing. But in hand, it’s something deeper. A dark forest green layered with turquoise and white threads, creating a kind of prismatic effect. It doesn’t sit still visually. It changes depending on the light, the folds, the way it’s worn.

And that’s part of the magic.

But it’s not just color.

I’ve also learned that even when two wraps share the same blend on paper, they can feel completely different. Machine-woven wraps, even from larger companies like Didymos, are incredibly difficult to replicate exactly. There are subtle differences between production runs, which is why you hear seasoned wrappers searching for specific versions—a “v2,” a certain year, a particular batch known for how it feels.

It sounds a little wild from the outside.

But once you experience it, it makes sense.

Caribe is probably my best example of that.

It’s a wrap that is special to me for many reasons—not just the fabric itself, but the journey it took to get here. It came from the Czech Republic, with a pit stop through my aunt because direct shipping wasn’t an option. That alone made it feel meaningful before I even touched it.

But my first impressions were… mixed.

It was in beautiful condition, a perfect size, everything I should have loved. And yet, I struggled to understand why it was considered such a gem. Why people searched so hard for it.

Caribe also exists in two versions—a thinner and a thicker one. From what I’ve gathered, the thinner versions are more common. When mine arrived, I did the math—length, width, weight—and landed somewhere around 297 GSM, which would place it in the thicker category.

And still, I wasn’t sure.

But it grew on me.

Over time, it softened. Became more supple. And at the same time, it revealed this incredible hold. The kind that makes you understand, slowly, why something is loved the way it is.

And maybe that’s the thread tying all of this together.

In a world that feels uncertain, where things shift and expectations don’t always match reality, I’ve found myself learning that not everything reveals its value right away.

Some things take time.

Some things require patience.

And some things—whether it’s a wrap, a community, or even the season you’re in—become meaningful not because they were easy to understand at first, but because you stayed long enough to see what they really were.

And maybe that’s what this season is teaching me.

To sit with the unknown a little longer. To let things unfold before deciding what they are. To trust that not everything needs to make sense right away.

The wraps I once questioned become the ones I reach for. The colors I thought I understood shift in different light. The things that felt uncertain begin to feel familiar.

And in a world that so often feels divided, unpredictable, and heavy, there is something steady in the simple act of wrapping my child close.

Something grounding. Something real.

A reminder that even when the bigger picture feels out of focus, there is still beauty in the details. Still connection in the small moments. Still softness waiting to be found.

Layer by layer. Thread by thread. We come to understand what we’re holding.

[diosa199]

Language of Linen

Woven wrap blends are such a lifeblood of babywearing. Most of us start out with 100% cotton, and sometimes never transition into other avenues. But when you do, an entire world opens up.

Suddenly the vocabulary changes.

Words like cool to the touch, little stretch, stronger when wet, and of course the coveted broken-in soft puddle start appearing in conversation.

Linen was one of the first blends that caught my attention. The first time I tried a linen blend was with my 20% linen wrap, Whispering Woods. Thin and well broken-in with little to no give, it’s a wrap I reach for when I want something sturdy—when I need Sy to stay put.

But some of the lore surrounding linen Trias blends is especially enticing. Names get whispered with admiration: Dew, Agave, Astolia… and of course the harder-to-find Borea, known for its deep blue tones with hints of glimmer.

So I decided to play a little game.

I tossed three of my linen Trias onto the bed—Dew, Agave, and Borea—letting them fall into a soft puddle of fabric. Then, with my eyes closed, I tested whether I could tell the difference between them just by touch.

Right away, Dew was easy to find. It carries that classic linen feel—cool to the touch in a way that almost reminds me of some silky blends I’ve tried. Out of the three, Dew has the lowest linen percentage and the lightest weight, around 260 gsm. It feels airy and delicate in the hand.

Next I found Agave, which surprised me the most. It has a noticeable spongy texture—dense and airy at the same time, which feels almost contradictory. Still cool to the touch, but with a little more substance. There’s even a faint glimmer from the gold strands woven into its 18% linen blend.

Then there is Borea, with the highest linen content of the three at 20%.

At first glance, Borea can be easy to overlook. But the longer you look at it, the more it reveals itself. The colorway shifts depending on the light—sometimes deep blue, sometimes teal, from a white warp it sometimes makes something rather between. It’s the kind of wrap that almost refuses to photograph the same way twice.

In hand, it is sturdy and strong, easily making twenty-plus pounds feel weightless while still hugging like a supportive bandage.

It’s also the most broken-in Trias I’ve ever felt, which makes sense when you know its story. This wrap has passed through the arms of three mothers and their babies before reaching mine. Somehow that history feels present every time I tie it. Each “up” carries a quiet reminder that this wrap has held many little ones before Sy.

Out of the three, I’d be hard-pressed to choose a favorite.

Maybe Borea, because of its rich history and its beautiful chameleon colorway. But Dew and Agave each have their moment too. They each bring something different to the experience of wrapping.

And I think that’s why woven wraps can be such a head-scratcher for people who are new—or even just watching from the outside.

To them it might look like “just fabric.”

But once you start exploring blends, weights, and weaves, you realize how different they truly are. Each one behaves in its own way, and discovering your preferences becomes part of the journey.

Trying different wraps isn’t just about collecting them.

It’s about learning the language of fabric—one carry at a time.

[diosa199]

I Am Not Invisible

Who is this woman?

It occurred to me as I looked at a photo taken at the dentist’s office. I was crouched on the floor playing with Soren while Sy rested quietly on my back. Safe. Contained. Content. I was calmly entertaining two little boys in a fluorescent-lit waiting room while Grandma got her X-rays.

And I thought — who is this woman?

Because the truth is, this version of me would surprise the girl I used to be.

I have always preferred to be invisible. As someone with anxiety, unnoticed feels safest. Blending in means fewer eyes, fewer assumptions, fewer chances for my nervous system to flare without warning. When attention lands on me, my face flushes instantly. My heart races. My body shifts into alertness I didn’t ask for.

Parenting toddlers in the “big feelings” era is already a shock to the nervous system. Add an audience — real or imagined — and it can feel overwhelming. The crying. The resistance. The glances from strangers that may or may not be judgment. It’s a lot.

My husband has been getting an education in this lately. Before the last few years, he hadn’t experienced that particular kind of scrutiny. The kind where your child melts down in public and suddenly you feel like the room has turned toward you. I’ve told him the same things I tell myself: everyone has been there. This is normal. Toddlers have big feelings. We are not failing.

And still — it’s hard.

But here’s what I’m learning.

Sometimes the reward lives on the other side of discomfort.

Going to the overcrowded science fair is overstimulating. The noise, the people, the chaos. But it might also become a core memory for a three-year-old. Maybe it sparks something lifelong. Maybe it doesn’t. But showing up matters.

So I brace for the possibility of a tantrum. I plan my carrier accordingly. I think through exits and snacks and timing. I prepare for dysregulation — theirs and mine.

And then I wrap.

Because here’s the unexpected truth: I don’t love being looked at. But for some reason, when I’m babywearing, I feel powerful.

Not invisible.

Not small.

Grounded.

There is something about having my child secure against me that steadies my nervous system. Something about knowing I can navigate a crowded room with one anchored to my back and another holding my hand. It gives me structure. It gives me purpose. It gives me something solid to focus on besides imagined judgment.

When I’m wrapping, I am not a woman trying to disappear.

I am a mother doing her job.

Competent.

Prepared.

Present.

Maybe that’s who she is — the woman in the dentist’s office photo. The one crouched on the floor, hair undone, probably overstimulated, but steady. The one who still feels anxiety rise in public spaces, but moves forward anyway.

Not because she suddenly loves attention.

But because she has something more important to hold.

I am not invisible.

And I am no longer trying to be.

[diosa199]

Mastery in Motion — layer by layer

Over the last few months, I’ve watched my wrapping skills deepen in a way that feels both steady and surprising. What once required full concentration and a mirror now happens almost instinctively. And yet, I know there is still more to learn. There always is.

In March, I plan to begin a wrapping challenge — one that will likely take months to complete. Not because I expect perfection, but because I want to experience it fully. I want to build skill slowly and intentionally. To let each carry teach me something. To struggle where I need to struggle. To celebrate the breakthroughs when they come.

Of course, woven into all of that ambition is the quiet question that sometimes lingers: How long will Sy let me wrap him?

Even though I know our time is not ending anytime soon, motherhood has a way of reminding you that seasons move whether you are ready or not. He still settles in. Still sighs. Still rests his cheek against my chest like it is the most natural place in the world. And maybe it is.

What has shifted most recently is not just skill — it’s preference. I now have enough wraps, and enough experience, to choose intentionally. I can base my selection on the carry itself, on my energy level, on how supportive I need it to feel.

Some days I want tight and locked in — a wrap that has a job to do and does it well. Structured. Secure. Staying put without question.

Other days I reach for the cozy hug. The cushy weave that allows for neck snuggles and heavy eyelids. The one where bedtime is written all over his face, where the fabric feels like an extension of my own arms.

Each fold of fabric tells a story. Every successful wrap job feels like triumph — tails flowing behind me, making me feel almost glamorous, even if I haven’t showered in days or washed my hair in a week. There is something undeniably powerful about mastering a skill that once intimidated you.

But the real payoff isn’t just technical.

It’s emotional.

It’s the way he melts in. The way I feel capable. The quiet pride of knowing that repetition has turned into instinct. That something which once felt complicated now feels like second nature.

It seems like the most natural thing in the world — this wrapping, this holding, this learning alongside my child.

And maybe that’s what growth looks like.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just layer upon layer of practice, until one day you realize you aren’t trying so hard anymore.

You’re simply doing it. feat: thin didymos linen blend, cashmere bedtime hugs. Trias borea for utility while looking beautiful in blue

[diosa199]

All-cotton couture

Lately I’ve been experimenting with all-cotton Trias wraps, trying to decide if they are truly toddler worthy or if my heart still leans toward hemp and wool for that extra support. It’s funny because in the middle of this little experiment I found myself circling back to a conversation that comes up often among longtime wrappers — the history of Didymos and how its pricing has shifted over the years.

From what I’ve gathered listening to moms who have been wrapping for fifteen, even twenty years, Didymos was once considered one of the most accessible entry points into woven wraps. Not cheap exactly, but approachable. The idea was inclusion — good quality cotton, durable weaves, something that would last through multiple babies without feeling like a luxury purchase. It was the brand you recommended when someone said, “I’m curious, but I’m not sure I want to invest a fortune.”

Then over time the textiles evolved. New weaves were introduced, blends expanded, and the artistry deepened. When the Trias double weave became more prominent, prices crept upward. Not overnight, not dramatically in a single season, but gradually enough that people who had been around a long time noticed. What used to feel like the “entry level” option slowly began sharing shelf space with wraps that were undeniably premium. Linen blends, hemp percentages, wool, cashmere — fibers that changed the feel in hand and the numbers on the price tag.

And here’s where it gets interesting. The conversation isn’t just about cost, it’s about perception. To a beginner, a woven wrap can look like “just fabric.” A long piece of cloth with a triple-digit price attached can feel wild without the context of weave density, fiber strength, or the craftsmanship behind it. To someone seasoned, that same wrap represents hours of weaving, dyeing, testing, and a textile designed to carry actual human weight safely and comfortably. Two completely different lenses looking at the same object.

Resale adds another layer. Unlike handbags or sneakers, wraps don’t always skyrocket in value. Many hold steady or sell close to their original price, sometimes less. Which at first glance seems discouraging, until you realize these are textiles meant to be used, softened, loved, and passed along. They aren’t disposable, but they also aren’t always treated like rare collectibles. Their worth often lives more in the hands and memories than in the market.

Testing cotton Trias has made me appreciate that balance even more. Cotton is honest. It doesn’t hide behind sheen or luxury fiber names. When it works, it works because the weave is good. Because the structure is supportive. Because skill and repetition have met each other somewhere in the middle. It reminds me that accessibility isn’t only about price — it’s also about approachability, about whether a parent feels empowered enough to try in the first place.

And maybe that’s the heart of it. The wraps change, the fibers evolve, the prices rise and fall, but the purpose stays steady. A tool meant to hold a child close, to free a pair of hands, to create connection in the middle of ordinary days. Whether cotton, hemp, wool, or something in between, the real value is never just the fabric. It’s the life that happens while you’re wearing it.

All cotton trias Argento, amaranth and honesty are some of my favorites. Simple yet luxurious.

[diosa199]

Blog Post #13 — After the Noise, Return to the Rhythm

Oh. I get it now.

Now more than ever, I understand how people end up with fifty-plus carriers. And honestly, if I weren’t still a reasonably rational person, I could probably see how hoarding situations start too. I laugh, because on paper this whole wrap thing still feels a little wild. The average person has absolutely no idea that there’s a community of people out here taking a very long piece of fabric and tying knots around themselves and a baby… securely? It sounds preposterous.

And yet, it’s wildly transformative.

You start weak-legged like a newborn fawn, fumbling and tripping through your first attempts. Then one day you stand there, baby secure, hands free, breath steady, feeling almost… majestic. A full-blown wrap goddess moment. Those early days usually ended with me rushing to a car seat or defaulting to a simple front ruck. Practical, yes. Comfortable enough, maybe. But as Sy grew and got wigglier, all that slack would get exploited. The weight distribution would pull wrong. My back would ache. It worked — until it didn’t.

As Sy and I have grown together, both in skill and tolerance, we’ve been able to practice the carries I truly love. The ones that showcase the wrap in some way. A chest pass. Dramatic tails. Wrap jobs that feel intentional, expressive, almost celebratory. The secret is out: the wrapper is just as much a participant in the joy as the baby. Looking forward to each wrap job, choosing fabric, tying knots with care, celebrating both the cloth and the child it holds — that’s a whole different layer of satisfaction.

And then there’s the hunt.

Once you’re immersed in this world, you start hearing language like “aging out” and “stages of family growth.” You realize these wraps aren’t mass produced in endless supply. Even the larger companies like Didymos, LennyLamb, Yaro, or Oscha release in batches. And beyond them are small weavers producing even smaller runs, sometimes only a few times a year.

That means a wrap everyone is raving about from 2015 isn’t sitting on a website waiting to be bought new. So begins the research. Reading archives. Comparing blends. Asking other wrappers about feel and performance. Waiting. A lot of waiting.

In the beginning, I gravitated toward easy, beginner-friendly wraps. Thin. All cotton. Forgiving. And then one day, I found myself spending weeks searching for the perfect overlay wrap. Something stronger. More supportive. Something that matched where we were now.

That’s when hemp really entered the picture.

Lately, my heart has been firmly set on hemp blends. I’ve yet to hear a truly negative attribute about them. Some of the most popular blends hover around 60/40 or even 50/50, and in my late-night internet archive travels, I kept seeing the same name surface again and again: Blues Hemp Prima.

People raved about it. Reverently. I’d only seen three or five ever come up for sale. And somehow — whether through craftiness or pure silliness — I managed to get one home. And surprisingly, or maybe not, it was everything people said it would be.

It had been cared for lovingly, and I find myself reaching for it often. At around 270 GSM according to WrapTrack, it’s definitely on the thicker side. But the hemp gives it this perfect bounce paired with softness. This is where the words “buttery” and “soft to the touch” actually feel accurate — everything you want when wrapping your baby.

Turquoise Prima Hemp has also just made a long journey across the ocean, this time from Germany. A mama whose last daughter is aging out made the hard decision to let it go. It’s a similar hemp-cotton blend with a hearty GSM. We haven’t had our first up in it yet, but I can already see the potential there.

Other enthusiasts often say 2013 was a particularly good year for Didymos, and it shows. Anthracite Hemp Prima is another standout for me — floppy, thin, incredibly soft, and durable. It’s a size 4, which has become invaluable for quick ups when Sy is especially wiggly.

And maybe that’s where this all comes together.

After the noise of the holidays fades and the rush quiets, what remains is rhythm. Not excess. Not accumulation for its own sake. But intention. Learning. Growth. Choosing what supports us best in the season we’re in.

These wraps aren’t about having everything. They’re about having what fits right now. What holds us steady. What brings ease to the ordinary days and softness to the hard ones.

In returning to routine, I find comfort in the familiar weight on my back, in the repetition of tying and tightening, in the quiet understanding between me and my baby. This is where the magic settles after the celebration ends. In the everyday. In the steady. In the ways we carry on.

After the noise, rhythm returns.

And in that rhythm, I am held too.

[diosa199]

When the wrapping paper settles

It’s the day after Christmas, and there’s a very specific kind of exhaustion that settles in. The kind you feel after a long vacation filled with nonstop travel, noise, and chaos, where you can’t believe someone had the audacity to schedule you to return to normal life immediately afterward.

This is where the Christmas magic drops off.

What’s left is a strange mix of what just happened and did we really buy all of that? Empty cardboard boxes stack up quickly, scraps of paper linger in corners, and toys with flashing lights and no off-switch announce themselves from every room. Batteries are already dying. It’s the peak of a two-month buildup, and no matter how much joy there is, there’s always that hollow echo of consumerism underneath it all.

And yet.

It’s rounded out by something incredibly grounding: watching my children experience the magic.

My almost three-year-old was electric. Neurons firing at full speed as he bounced from one present to the next, helping pass gifts to family members, barely able to contain himself. The pure joy in his voice as he shouted “Santa!” again and again softened everything else. Those moments make the mess and exhaustion feel worth it.

So we do the small things that make this season feel special. We bake cookies, decorate the tree, sing songs, take pictures, and then do it all again. Some years I try to fit in every tradition, every outing, every memory, and I end up overwhelmed. The last few years, with two more children added to our family, my threshold for “too much” has become much lower.

This year felt different. Balanced. Manageable. Enough.

Wrapping played a bigger role in that than I expected. It gave me a quiet confidence that carried me through multiple Walmart trips and long store runs while still feeling present. Some of my favorite memories this season are decorating the tree with Sy snug on my back, my hands free, my body steady, my mind calmer.

It’s been fun combing through my stash and pulling out wraps that felt right for the season and for the tasks of the day. I tend to reach for greens, some reds, and softer neutrals this time of year. Somewhere along the way, we crossed into what we jokingly call “wrapping in the wild.”

Four or five trips to Walmart and Costco later, with Sy happily riding high on my back, I can confidently say it’s not nearly as dramatic as we once imagined.

Both Bryce and my mom were hesitant at first. They worried people would stare or comment or give unwanted attention. But the truth is, most people don’t say anything at all. In our very American, individualistic culture, people tend to mind their own business.

One woman, probably in her sixties, stopped to tell me she remembered doing something similar when her kids were little. When I mentioned that Didymos was founded in the 1970s and just hasn’t been widely seen in the U.S., she laughed and said that made sense. She reflected that America doesn’t have the same visible babywearing culture as other parts of the world.

And she’s not wrong.

Strollers became the default here, while babywearing stayed quieter, more fragmented, passed between caregivers instead of celebrated openly. There’s a rich history there, even if it isn’t always visible.

I think about that sometimes as I move through stores with my baby wrapped against me. How small, ordinary choices can quietly shift culture. How visibility matters. How maybe, in our own small way, we’re helping make babywearing feel normal again.

The in-between this year, and in years past, also includes a family car ride that takes most of the day. The kind that feels like an extension of Christmas itself. A second round of celebrations with grandparents. Another living room glowing with tree lights, presents piled beneath branches lit in pinks and blues, and young children standing wide-eyed, taking it all in. There is something deeply joyful about watching wonder land again and again on a child’s face.

And then, almost without warning, January arrives.

Life doesn’t pause just because the holidays are over. A new year, new you mantra starts circulating if you subscribe to that sort of thing. For us, the year now begins with birthdays — two of them — and everything pivots quickly from magic to momentum.

This visit would not have been bearable without my wraps.

I tried to be a minimalist. I really did. I brought only two wraps (insert sad face), one buckle carrier — the Lark — and one ring sling. What do you know, I used every single one more than once.

My chosen wraps were a Didymos Prima Anthracite Hemp and my Yaro high-wool Firebird, sizes 4 and 5. AHP is an older Prima release from 2011. It’s not a wrap I would have naturally gravitated toward based on age or thinness alone, but after months of listening to seasoned wrappers — women who have carried generations of babies — speak about it with reverence, I started to understand why it’s so loved.

They describe it as soft, flannel-like, hempy goodness that creates the kind of “sleepy dust” you can almost feel settle over a child. And they’re right. The color is a deep gray-black, perfectly within my preferred palette. It’s a size 4, just long enough for a quick ruck, and incredibly easy to adjust while already wrapped — something that matters more than you realize when you’re tired or traveling.

My second choice was my Yaro wool, chosen intentionally for its thermoregulating properties. The forecast called for cold temperatures, possibly even snow, and one thing I’ve learned to trust about natural animal fibers is how well they keep you warm without overheating. Since these revelations, I’ve found myself questioning every clothing blend I own. I’m fairly certain a cashmere sweater is in my future to match my beloved cashmere wraps.

The extra space they took up in the diaper bag was more than worth it.

When bedtime came around at Grandma’s, excitement lingered in the air. New surroundings, long days, full bellies, unfamiliar rhythms — all the ingredients for little bodies that don’t quite know how to shut down. But with the help of AHP, Sy immediately recognized the familiarity of our routine.

He fussed and protested as the first pass was made. But by the final knot, his breathing slowed. His head rested against my back. His body softened. He was home again, even in a different place, ready for rest.

That’s the quiet gift of carrying, especially in these in-between seasons. When everything else feels loud or unfamiliar, the wrap becomes the constant. The ritual. The reminder that home isn’t always a place — sometimes it’s a feeling we carry with us.

As the holiday traditions wind down, I find myself grateful not just for the magic, but for the steadiness underneath it. For the ways I’ve learned to support myself so I can better support my children. For the confidence that comes from knowing what works for us.

In these quiet days after Christmas, as we rest in the in-between of 2025 and the new beginnings of 2026, I find myself reflecting on the year behind us and all of its blessings. In so many ways, it was one of the best years of growth and abundance I’ve known. I found wraps. I completed my beautiful family. I made memories that feel etched into my bones. I watched my eldest grow into a thoughtful, capable young man, and there is something profoundly moving about witnessing your child come into his own.

The wrap community has been an unexpected gift in all of this. Supportive, generous, encouraging, and kind in ways that carried me through postpartum more than I ever expected. I hold deep gratitude for the people who showed up, shared knowledge, offered reassurance, and made this journey feel less lonely.

As 2026 waits just around the corner, I feel steady and hopeful. Ready to keep wrapping, keep learning, and keep showing up for this life we’re building.

I don’t know exactly what this next year holds, but I know I’ll be carrying my children, my gratitude, and this quiet joy with me into whatever comes next.