The first thing I learnt was that starting a blog for free wasn’t quite as straightforward as the internet suggested. There were plenty of attractive templates promising professional-looking websites without spending a penny. Unfortunately, getting them to behave was another matter. I’d spend ages choosing a design, changing fonts and moving things around, only to discover that something looked completely different on my phone. One minute I thought I’d cracked it, the next I’d managed to move an image halfway across the page or make a perfectly respectable heading look enormous.

Then came the expenses. Domain names, hosting and the occasional feature that seemed essential until I saw the price. None of it was extravagant, but when you’re on maternity leave and already spending money on things a baby apparently can’t live without, even small amounts need consideration. I had to decide what mattered. A functioning website was worth paying for, but fancy extras could wait. I wasn’t running a publishing company, although judging by the amount of time I spent wrestling with the technology, I sometimes felt as though I should have been drawing a salary.

Before Cyrus arrived, I imagined maternity leave might involve the occasional quiet afternoon. I’d write while he slept, have a leisurely coffee and enjoy doing something creative between feeds. It was a lovely idea, although it bore very little resemblance to reality. Babies have no interest in your plans, and Cyrus didn’t care whether I was halfway through an article or trying to work out why WordPress had decided to rearrange my homepage. If he wanted feeding or changing, the laptop had to wait.

There were days when I did write several paragraphs and others when I barely got beyond a headline. I’d sit down with every intention of being productive, only to discover that the washing needed sorting, or something had to be prepared for dinner. I also felt guilty about spending time on the computer. I’d waited until 40 to become a mum and wanted to enjoy those early months with him, but I didn’t think becoming one meant I had to stop being interested in everything else. I loved writing, still had opinions and wanted to do something creative that didn’t involve singing nursery rhymes.

Eventually, I stopped trying to fit everything into a routine. If Cyrus slept and I had the energy, I’d write. If he didn’t, the blog could wait. It wasn’t efficient, but neither was motherhood, and I was beginning to understand that trying to do it perfectly was a waste of time. The washing would still be there tomorrow, but Cyrus wouldn’t stay a baby forever.

Starting a blog also involved explaining to H why I needed to spend money on a website when we already had plenty of other things to pay for. I could understand his point. From the outside, blogging looked like a hobby that involved sitting at a laptop, taking photographs and disappearing into the internet for hours. But writing had always been part of my life, and I wanted somewhere to use the skills I’d spent years developing.

I wasn’t expecting the blog to make money overnight. Having worked in PR, I knew building an audience took time, and that even the most carefully written article could disappear without much attention. I also knew I couldn’t justify spending a fortune on something that might never earn anything. So I learnt to do as much as possible myself, from choosing layouts to understanding the basics of search engine optimisation.

Some of it was interesting, tedious, and quite a lot involved watching tutorials while wondering why the person demonstrating made everything look so easy. There were moments when paying somebody to sort things out seemed tempting. Then I’d remember the household budget, make another coffee and have another go. It wasn’t the quickest way to build a website, but I was learning skills I wouldn’t have acquired if I’d simply handed the whole thing over to somebody else.

One of the better things about starting Saffron & Cyrus was meeting other bloggers. I began attending events and talking to people who were trying to build their own websites, often while juggling jobs, families and other commitments. I enjoyed hearing how they worked, what they’d learnt and which mistakes they’d made along the way. There was something reassuring about discovering that other people had spent evenings trying to fix a website problem that turned out to be embarrassingly simple.

The conversations were often more useful than the formal presentations. Someone would recommend a tool, explain how they’d approached a brand or share a little advice that saved me hours of frustration. I didn’t need hundreds of online acquaintances. A few people who were willing to talk honestly about their experiences were far more valuable, particularly when I was spending so much time at home with a baby.

I was also learning that blogging could be a solitary occupation. Most of the work happened at home, often when everyone else was asleep, and there wasn’t always somebody around who understood why I was so interested in website layouts or article headlines. It was nice to meet people who understood why anyone would voluntarily spend their spare time writing articles that might only attract a handful of readers.

At some point, I began wondering whether there was any room for another parenting blog. The internet was already overflowing with advice about pregnancy, babies, feeding, sleeping and everything else a new mother was apparently supposed to know. Some websites were excellent, but others made motherhood look suspiciously easy. There were beautiful nurseries, perfectly dressed children and photographs of women who appeared to have mastered parenting without acquiring so much as a stain on their clothes.

My experience was different. I was a new mum in my forties, married to a Persian man and trying to make sense of parenthood between two cultures and all the opinions that came with them. I wanted to write about those experiences, including the funny bits, the awkward bits and the occasions when things didn’t go according to plan. I wasn’t interested in pretending our family life was perfect and I couldn’t see much point in creating a blog that suggested otherwise.

There was plenty I wanted to explore beyond motherhood. Women’s health interested me, as did food, culture and the way different families approached everyday life. I didn’t want to squeeze myself into a narrow category because somebody had decided that every successful blogger needed a niche. If something interested me and I thought I had a worthwhile story to tell, I wanted the freedom to write about it.

Once I’d got the website running, I became particular about how it looked. I wanted Saffron & Cyrus to feel warm and welcoming, but I didn’t want it covered in the sort of sugary pink colours that seemed to accompany anything aimed at mothers. I spent ages thinking about logos, fonts and photographs because I wanted the website to reflect my personality and the things I cared about, without looking like every other parenting blog.

Unfortunately, knowing what you like and knowing how to create it are two very different things. There were plenty of occasions when I changed something, decided I preferred the original and then couldn’t remember how to put it back. I suspect I spent more time adjusting the appearance of the website than most readers would ever spend looking at it. Eventually, I realised that the design didn’t have to be perfect. It needed to be readable, easy to navigate and reasonably pleasant to look at. The rest could improve over time.

After all, there wasn’t much point having a beautiful homepage if nobody could find anything interesting to read. I was slowly beginning to understand that while design mattered, the writing was what would give people a reason to return. A clever logo might catch somebody’s eye, but it wasn’t going to keep them reading an article that had nothing useful or entertaining to say.

Having a background in PR gave me a useful starting point. I knew how to write a headline, structure a story and think about what might interest a reader. I also understood that sending an email to a journalist or approaching a brand required a little more thought than copying the same message to everyone. But writing about my own life felt different from writing for a client. There was no brief to follow, no carefully approved message and nobody telling me which subjects were worth covering.

That freedom was wonderful, although it also meant I had to make every decision myself. I had to work out how much of our family life I was comfortable sharing, particularly when it involved Cyrus. I wanted the blog to be personal without turning every private moment into material for an article. There was a difference between sharing an experience that might help another mother and documenting every detail of my child’s life for strangers to read.

I also had to get used to the idea that some people might disagree with me or simply find what I’d written uninteresting. That comes with writing, whether you’re working for a newspaper, a business or yourself. You can’t expect everybody to enjoy every story, and I wasn’t particularly interested in changing my opinions to please people I’d never met. The difference was that these stories mattered to me personally. I wasn’t just promoting a product or explaining somebody else’s work. I was putting a little of my own life on the page, and that took some getting used to.

Every blogging guide seemed to insist that consistency was essential. You had to publish regularly, keep your social media accounts active and make sure readers had a reason to return. It sounded sensible enough, but I wasn’t entirely sure how I was supposed to manage all that while looking after a baby. Some weeks I had plenty to say and enough time to write it. Other weeks I was tired, distracted or simply more interested in spending time with Cyrus.

I began to resent the idea that something I’d started for enjoyment should become another list of things I hadn’t managed to do. I already had enough of those without adding blog posts, photographs and social media updates. So I decided I’d rather publish something worthwhile when I had the time than rush out an article because a blogging expert said I should. I wanted people to read Saffron & Cyrus because they enjoyed the stories, not because I’d managed to meet an arbitrary posting schedule.

Of course, I still wanted the blog to grow. I liked seeing people visit the website and knowing that somebody had taken the time to read what I’d written. But I didn’t want to spend maternity leave obsessing over numbers when there was a little boy growing up in front of me. I’d started blogging because I enjoyed writing, and I wasn’t going to let the pressure to keep publishing take that enjoyment away.

I’ve always been inclined to work things out for myself, which isn’t necessarily a good quality when you’re trying to learn something technical. I could spend hours attempting to fix a problem rather than admit I didn’t understand it. Blogging soon cured me of some of that stubbornness. There were people who knew far more about websites than I did, and asking them for advice was considerably easier than spending an entire evening getting nowhere.

I also appreciated the practical help I received at home. Sometimes all I needed was half an hour to finish writing while someone else kept Cyrus occupied. Other times it was simply useful to have somebody listen while I explained why a particular website problem was driving me mad. I was learning that creating something for myself didn’t mean having to do everything alone, and that a little advice, encouragement or uninterrupted time could make an enormous difference.

Looking back, I don’t remember how many people read my first articles or whether the website looked particularly impressive. I remember sitting at my laptop while Cyrus slept, trying to work out how everything fitted together and feeling ridiculously pleased when I finally managed to publish something. I remember the frustration too, the technical problems, the expense of things I hadn’t anticipated and the feeling that there were never enough hours in the day.

Starting a blog was certainly more work than I’d expected, and it wasn’t always the relaxing creative hobby I’d imagined. But I enjoyed having something that was mine. Becoming a mother at 40 was a huge change, and while I loved my new role, I didn’t want to lose the interests that had been part of my life long before Cyrus arrived.

Saffron & Cyrus gave me a place to write, experiment and occasionally make a complete mess of something without anybody else having to approve it. I could talk about motherhood one day, Persian food the next and whatever else caught my attention after that. It wasn’t a business empire, and I certainly wasn’t sitting at the kitchen table planning my early retirement. I was simply doing something I enjoyed and discovering that I could build it gradually, without spending money we didn’t have.

Would I recommend starting a blog when money is tight and you have a baby to look after? Yes, provided you’re prepared for the occasional technical disaster and don’t expect to become rich by Christmas. You don’t need an expensive website, professional photographs or a perfectly planned content calendar to begin. You need something to say, a little patience and the willingness to learn as you go.

And if your baby wakes up just as you’ve written the perfect opening paragraph, save your work before you pick him up. Trust me, that’s one lesson worth learning early.