Why new moms are sensitive to perfume on their babies

On Instagram, the parenting confessional reel has become its own genre. But one clip by Roza Franco struck a nerve. In it, she cradles her baby, takes a deep breath, and then grimaces. The caption says it all: “It’s not personal, it’s primal.”

The scene is simple but raw. The baby’s natural scent had been replaced by someone else’s perfume. For Franco—and clearly many others—it wasn’t just unfamiliar. It felt like a boundary had been crossed. Because for some new moms, that new-baby smell isn’t just sweet. It’s sacred.

Franco’s clip isn’t an isolated anecdote. It’s triggering a broader conversation: Why are some parents upset when their baby gets passed around and comes back smelling different? Psychologists say it’s not overreacting—it’s evolutionary wiring.

Newborns recognize their parent’s scent almost immediately. The reverse is true too: a parent’s brain is tuned to respond to their baby’s natural smell. That scent connection activates oxytocin, the “bonding hormone,” and plays a subtle role in postpartum attachment. Disrupt that signal—and the brain registers it as unfamiliar, even threatening.

Dr. Crystal Saidi and Dr. Emily Bly both point to the limbic system, the part of the brain that links smell to emotion. This isn’t a quirk of personality. It’s a primitive feature of human survival.

The reaction might start as discomfort. But it often evolves into boundary-setting. “Please don’t wear perfume when holding the baby.” It sounds awkward. But for many parents, it’s an early test of whether others will respect their instincts—even when those instincts are hard to articulate.

In the comments on Franco’s video, moms admitted to secretly washing baby clothes after visitors left. Others shared how they felt irrationally upset—even when it was grandma. One user nailed the evolutionary echo: “It’s like when you’re told not to touch wild baby animals. Their moms might reject them. It’s probably the same instinct. Just softened.”

But not everyone relates. Some shrug off the fuss. “Babies are washable,” one commenter said. “Means they were loved on.” Fair enough—but also proof of how wide the emotional spectrum can be, even among loving parents.

So is it just biology? Not quite. Licensed therapist Rachel Goldberg explains that for some mothers, the scent-trigger isn’t just hormonal—it’s emotional labor. They’re already stretched thin, and now they have to address someone else’s perfume on their newborn. Again.

That irritation isn’t just about the baby. It’s about the social toll of having to enforce invisible needs while appearing polite. Especially in the early postpartum haze, where everything feels fragile. Add in scent-triggered discomfort, and the equation becomes layered: part oxytocin, part overstimulation, part “I don’t have the bandwidth to explain this again.”

There’s a reason this reel resonated. It gives a name to a moment many didn’t realize was valid. It also reframes how scent works in parenting culture. For decades, scented lotions, powders, and baby products were marketed as symbols of care. But now, the pendulum is swinging the other way: toward minimalism, skin sensitivity, and hormonal attunement.

In that light, Franco’s reaction isn’t over-the-top. It’s in line with a broader return to bodily intuition. Not everything needs to smell like lavender to signal love. For outsiders, it may seem trivial—scent is fleeting, after all. But for new parents, especially those in the thick of postpartum, small things can feel seismic. And scent isn’t neutral. It’s how we recognize, remember, and regulate.

That newborn smell isn’t just sentimental. It’s biological shorthand for safety, familiarity, and bonding. When it changes, especially due to a stranger’s cologne or a well-meaning relative’s signature scent, it can feel like the baby is no longer “yours” in the same embodied way. That’s not about ownership—it’s about connection. Scent is how many new moms re-anchor after hours of sleep deprivation, hormonal fluctuation, and identity shifts.

And it goes beyond mothers. Non-birthing parents and adoptive parents report similar experiences—feeling grounded and attuned through scent. For them, any disruption can amplify insecurities about bonding or identity, especially in the early days.

What’s also emerging is a subtle etiquette shift among millennial and Gen Z parents. Just as guests are now asked to wash hands before holding a baby, many are being gently told to go fragrance-free. This isn’t snobbery—it’s sensory literacy.

We’re living in a time where people are more aware of sensory triggers, trauma responses, and the unspoken rules of consent around touch, noise, and yes, even scent. And in a culture that often praises go-with-the-flow parenting, asking someone not to wear perfume around your baby can feel radical—because it asserts that invisible needs matter too.

So while to some it may still seem like “just a smell,” for others it’s a reminder: new parents are allowed to protect their space, their rhythm, and yes, even their olfactory connection to the human they just brought into the world. Sometimes that’s not a fuss. It’s a boundary with a heartbeat.

Franco’s post doesn’t read like judgment. It reads like recalibration. The scent of a newborn is something most people never think about. Until it’s gone. Until it’s been overwritten by someone else’s signature scent. Maybe that’s the deeper cue here. That in a world full of overstimulation, some instincts still deserve reverence—even if they show up as a scrunched nose and a quietly changed onesie. Because for a new parent, sometimes “I just want my baby to smell like my baby” is the most honest sentence in the world.

Roza Franco’s reel didn’t go viral because it was dramatic. It resonated because it was quiet, familiar, and deeply human. In a scroll-heavy world where parenting content is often loud or curated, her reaction felt unfiltered—and that’s what made it powerful.

The newborn scent conversation isn’t really about perfume. It’s about attunement. It’s about how new parents are tuning into themselves, their babies, and the invisible rituals that bond them. And it’s about how even well-meaning gestures—like a cuddle from a scented auntie—can disrupt that fragile emotional choreography.

Ultimately, setting boundaries around scent isn’t a rejection of help or love. It’s an affirmation of presence. A way of saying: this moment is precious, hormonal, messy—and real. Please meet us here, as we are.