Forever Postpartum
A reflective series exploring the tender, transformative seasons of motherhood, nourishment, and what it means to care for ourselves and others.
We're so pleased to welcome Gina Urlich to this edition of Forever Postpartum.
Mother to four children, Gina is a clinical nutritionist and founder of Odi Nutrition, a business that has redefined convenient nutrition for children with a wholefood approach. Through her work, she's become a trusted voice in women's and infant health, supporting families through practical, evidence-informed nutrition and a shared belief that simple, nourishing foundations matter.
As always, Gina brings both warmth and honesty to this conversation, sharing reflections on the many seasons of motherhood and the importance of extending the same care to ourselves that we so naturally offer those around us.
We're grateful to share her words with our community.
Our journal is built around the belief that postpartum doesn't simply end after the newborn days- it continues to shape us through motherhood and each new chapter of life. How do you feel motherhood has continued to influence the person you are today?
Motherhood is the greatest gift I'll never take for granted.
The love you feel for your children is unlike anything else. It's expansive, beautiful and joyful, but it's also raw, messy and deeply humbling. Becoming a mother didn't just change my priorities, it changed me at the core of who I am.
My children have taught me more than anything else. They've made me softer in some ways and stronger in others. They've shown me a patience I didn't know I had, and they've continually reminded me that perfection was never the goal, presence is. There's something about the way a child looks at you that strips away every performance and every mask. They don't need the polished version of you. They just need you, fully there.
I think motherhood also deepened my sense of purpose in ways I didn't expect. It gave the work I do with Odi a new weight and meaning, because I'm not just building something professionally, I'm modelling something for my children. What it looks like to care deeply about something. To build something from your values. To keep going on the hard days. I hope they see that.
Over recent years, you've navigated an incredibly complex season while also leading Odi through growth and evolution. What has that experience taught you about yourself? Have your ideas around support or slowing down changed along the way?
It took a pretty significant wake-up call for me to realise I couldn't keep pouring from an empty cup.
For a long time I was looking after everyone else, my children, my business, my team, my community while quietly neglecting myself. The irony isn't lost on me. As a nutritionist, I know how important it is to nourish ourselves if we want to show up fully for the people we love. I was saying it, I believed it, and yet I wasn't living it.
What I've come to understand is that slowing down isn't a weakness or a luxury, it's a practice that takes real courage, especially when the world keeps rewarding busyness. I had to unlearn the idea that my value was tied to how much I could produce or carry. That belief was costing me far more than I realised.
I've learnt that resilience isn't about pushing harder. Sometimes it's about having the courage to slow down, ask for help and recognise that your worth isn't measured by how much you can manage. The people around me, my team, my family didn't need me to be invincible. They needed me to be honest about what I needed too.
These days I protect my health with the same intention that I protect my family or my business, because I've realised they're not separate. The healthiest version of me is the greatest gift I can give the people around me.
We often draw inspiration from traditional postpartum wisdom, where mothers were intentionally nourished and cared for after birth. Looking back at your own early postpartum experiences, is there anything you wish had been protected or prioritised?
Rest. I wish someone had given me permission to truly rest and I wish I'd been able to receive it without guilt.
I remember the relentless pressure to bounce back, to be grateful, to cope. And I was grateful, deeply so. But gratitude and exhaustion can exist at the same time, and nobody tells you that. Nobody tells you that you can be in absolute awe of this tiny person while also feeling completely undone by the enormity of what your body and mind have just been through.
I wish my sleep had been more protected. I wish food had been brought to me, warm, nourishing food without me having to ask or organise it myself. There's a reason so many traditional cultures built rituals of care around new mothers: confinement periods, warming foods, designated support. They understood that a mother's recovery wasn't optional. It was foundational.
Looking back, I also wish I'd been encouraged to speak more honestly about how I was feeling not just the beautiful parts, but the overwhelming parts too. There was so much I held quietly because I didn't want to seem like I wasn't coping. I was coping. But I deserved more than just coping.
Motherhood invites us to see ourselves and the world through a different lens. Is there a belief or expectation of yourself that you've gently let go of? What has taken its place?
The belief that I had to have it all together, all the time, for everyone.
For years I operated from a quiet but relentless expectation that I should be able to handle everything. That asking for help was somehow a sign that I hadn't planned well enough, or worked hard enough, or that I wasn't strong enough. I don't know exactly where that came from, but it ran deep.
Letting go of it didn't happen in one moment. It was gradual, a slow softening that came through necessity more than anything else. Life has a way of humbling you when you hold on too tightly to control.
What's taken its place is something I'd describe as trust. Trust in other people to show up. Trust in my own instincts rather than some external measure of what "doing it right" looks like. And a genuine belief that interdependence isn't weakness, it's wisdom. The women I most admire aren't the ones who need nothing. They're the ones who know what they need and aren't afraid to name it.
We're big believers that nourishment isn't only found in food- it can also be found in the small rituals that help us feel steady. When you need to feel grounded, what do you find yourself returning to?
Grounding, warming, nourishing food always but not in the way people might expect from a nutritionist. It's always about the nutrients but also about the ritual of it. Sitting down to eat something warm, without my phone, without a to-do list running in the background. That small act of presence does something for me that nothing else quite replicates.
I also return to movement not exercise as punishment or output, but slow, intentional movement. A walk without a podcast. Stretching in the morning before the house wakes up. Time that's just mine.
I return to my children. Not in the sense of adding more to my plate, but in the sense that they have this way of pulling me back to what's real. A seven-year-old doesn't care about your inbox. They want to show you something funny, or ask you a question that stops you completely. There's medicine in that.
The thread connecting all of it is slowing down enough to actually arrive in the moment I'm in. That's the practice. It doesn't always come easily, but it's always worth it.
If you could sit beside a mother in the midst of postpartum- or any chapter of motherhood that feels uncertain or overwhelming- what would you want her to know?
That what she's feeling is real, and it matters. All of it.
When I have finished my journey with Odi, I want to become a birth doula, to support mothers in exactly these moments. That's how much I believe in the importance of women being truly held through this season. Without question, I wish mothers were cared for with the same tenderness that we naturally give our newborns.
There's so much focus on preparing for birth, but far less conversation about preparing for recovery. We celebrate the arrival of a baby, yet often expect mothers to bounce back almost immediately to keep the house running, entertain visitors and somehow carry on as though nothing monumental has just happened. But something monumental has happened. Everything has changed.
I wish I'd given myself more permission to rest without guilt, to accept help when it was offered and to let people nourish me instead of feeling like I needed to have everything under control. I thought staying strong meant staying stoic. It doesn't. Strength looks like softening into support when you need it most.
Food plays such an important role in healing, but so does feeling held emotionally, practically, by community. Looking back, I think every new mother deserves both. You were not designed to do this alone, and needing people isn't a failing. It's one of the most honest and human things you can do.