I recently had my first baby. Being a mother has been so much better than I thought it would be, and so much harder, too.

The difficulty is compounded by the fact that my own mother died seven years ago from cancer. From pregnancy to labor to birth to having a child less than 1 year old — that’s a lot to ask of a person, and I wish I could thank my mom, parent to parent, for what she did for me.

I don’t have my mom’s knowledge, help or reassurance, but more than that, a whole layer of love is missing from my life and my child’s life, too. People used to live in large family and village groups, and women had help raising children from their mothers, sisters, aunts and grandmothers. Women had sisters who were likely having children at the same time, too, and so the line between mothers and aunts blurred and parents became a loving, supportive, ever-present mass.

But this is not my experience. This is not most people’s experience anymore. And even though I am from the Upper Valley and many of my childhood friends live here, as well, I do not have a lot of “mom friends” in the area. Isolation is a real condition here, whether you have a baby or not.

As a stay-at-home mom, trips to West Lebanon have become the biggest deal in our week.

Being pregnant was a weird mix of experiencing something very private in a very public way. Before long, your pregnancy becomes something that seems to belong to others. I had strangers touching me, telling me horror stories of their long labors and botched C-sections. Once, while I was very pregnant, the driver of a coach service to Boston got so incensed because I needed to elevate my feet that he verbally abused me and I cried in public — which is the last thing a pregnant woman, or really anyone, wants to do.

And so I thought taking my baby out in public would be the same mix: uncomfortable annoyance or blatant judgment. But over and over again, while shopping for groceries in West Lebanon, I have been given unsolicited support and kindness.

My first time out alone with my 1-month-old baby was so much more logistically challenging than I thought it would be. As I struggled to get the car seat into the shopping cart while not waking my sleeping infant or pushing the cart away from me, a woman walking by stopped and, without saying a word, held the cart steady so I could safely complete the task.

While in one of the store aisles, I was wrapping and tying and re-wrapping the baby carrier when a woman came up behind me and said, “Let me help.” She repositioned and tied the back of the wrap so I could put baby in the front. I have had women help me put my groceries in the car while at the same time telling me it gets better and the first labor and first year are the hardest.

At 4 months my baby stopped sleeping — and I stopped feeling sane. After a particularly bad night, an older women in the checkout line in front of me asked me if my baby was sleeping. I simply said “No.” She told me, “It’s OK, this baby will sleep.” Everything I was going through was temporary, she said. She noticed that my baby looking at everything and told me that it’s the inquisitive ones who don’t sleep, and that just means I am raising a person who will be interesting and interested in the world.

I needed to hear that. I needed someone who didn’t know me, who didn’t know I was struggling, to say exactly that.

As I unsuccessfully tried to hold a fussing baby while getting all my groceries out of the cart, I had a woman with two little girls just reach over and help me unload. When I thanked her she said, “I remember those days.” Another time, over glasses of milk, I had a mom tell me that losing the baby weight will happen and the most important thing is to be kind to myself in the process.

It feels to me like there is this secret support group of women from all over the Upper Valley — “Moms Who Know.” I think children must be the most amazing beings if their mere presence can illicit this sort of kindness and support from strangers.

This letter is in appreciation for the women, the mothers, who have recognized themselves in me. As a mother without a mother, these experiences mean more than I can really express. Thank you.

C.S. Hammond lives in Hartland. She can be reached at ceileighss@gmail.com.