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Last Updated: January 2025
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
We've all heard it. We've all said it. But most of us don't have any real concept of what it means. We feel isolated, adrift, wishing that we had the support of a village to lean on. We have a mythical village in our heads — a rose-colored half memory of a time when our mothers and grandmothers did the work of mothering in community. We long for a feeling of support and care we have never known and all around us we see choices, stakes, demands. In the middle of the afternoon, the middle of the night, first thing in the morning, we think to ourselves for the ten millionth time — why is this so damn hard?
We think it, but we don't say it. We don't admit it to anyone else — even those we would consider our village. The number one rule of motherhood is to look like you can handle it at all times. Mothers know all. Mothers can do anything and everything. Mothers give everything they have, and then even more. Mothers pour out until they are empty and then find more.
And we all act like this is normal. Like this is healthy. Like this is what our children actually need. We act like this is what will help our families to thrive — an exhausted, anxious mother weighed down with the weight of the emotional load of the household and terrified of making a mistake that will forever scar the children and bring judgment, scorn, and shame on the family.
In The Motherhood Survey, 98% of the respondents wanted a different experience of motherhood for their children than what they are living through now. Why do we believe it is somehow necessary for us to suffer in ways we would never allow our children to? In ways we would fight so that our friends don't have to? In ways that we support other mothers in breaking out of?
Every time I launch a new coaching program, I hear the same thing from mothers. "Your work is so important. Thank you for showing mothers a different way forward." When I ask those moms if they will be joining the group they inevitably respond, "Oh no! I couldn't spend that amount of time/money on myself. I'll be OK. We'll figure it out."
And sometimes it actually is a budgetary consideration. But so many times the truth is that this mother cannot fathom spending any amount of time or any amount of money getting support. I coach mothers through building and sustaining what I call a network of support (the village). I coach mothers on how to rediscover who they are and how to create room for all facets of themselves in their family. I coach mothers on how to define self-care for themselves and how to fit it into their lives. I coach mothers on moving from survival to thriving.
We know that when mothers thrive, families thrive. Knowledge isn't enough. Knowledge cannot create change on its own, it must be paired with action. So Mama, what is it you need in order to take action? To make a change in your life?
How much does it have to hurt before you say, "ENOUGH"?
What vision of the future do you need to see so that you say, "YES"?
How can I convince you that you are worthy of so much more?
This isn't only about me and my offerings. This is about mothers reaching out and asking for help. This is about mothers setting boundaries and standing in their worth. This is about mothers reclaiming their personhood from parenthood.
If that is what you want, if you are ready to make a change in your life, then I am here and I will walk with you. I will fight for you. I will build your village with you.
But I cannot do it for you.
You have to choose YOU.
I will build your village with you, but I cannot do it for you.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
The grandmotherly woman who delivered our Instacart order this afternoon very nearly got punched in the face as a tip…
She looked at my two-year-old thrashing and screaming and pelting me with raisins, smiled at me and said, "Oh I miss those years! I hope you're enjoying every moment.”
You read the part where I said that SHE SAW THE TANTRUM IN PROGRESS, right?
She missed the part where my daughter got up off of her potty, sat on my lap, and peed on me. She missed the part where she screamed at me and hit me when I brought her inside because it was raining too hard for us to keep playing outside.
She missed the part where I haven't had a full night of sleep in five years.
She missed the part where you don't tell someone who is actively being tortured that they have to enjoy it.
Why do we have to keep saying this? How many articles, blog posts, podcasts, cartoons, songs — hell, I'm sure there are even TV episodes about this — do we have to produce before people just stop saying this?
It’s OK to say I don’t always like being a mom.
I closed the door slowly but firmly. I dodged raisins, comforted my daughter (who was angry that there was water on the window because of the rain), and explained for the millionth time that day that we do not throw anything inside the house. We sang a song from “Daniel Tiger” together and cuddled.
And guess what? None of that was fun. I can, at the same time, give her all the love, direction, and attention she needs and also be pissed as hell there is a raisin in my ear and my living room has been toddler-trashed. It's called being human. It's called motherhood.
It's not like I don't know what's coming. I have friends with children at all ages and stages headed my way. I understand that in just a few years this day will be covered with the sheen of nostalgia. But I refuse to let another person's nostalgia shame me.
No, this is not as complex as what is waiting for me in the tween years, or the teen years. Yes, she is still adorable and hilarious (even while throwing a tantrum). None of that means I'm not soaked in my child's urine. None of that makes me less exhausted. None of that makes me enjoy any of this.
Life doesn't exist in a binary. Life is not either/or — it is both/and.
I love my children AND they make me want to tear my hair out. I am grateful every day for their existence AND I need my own space. I am doing my best to be mindful of every stage AND there are some that just suck.
And that's the truth. Two and three years old — these ages are my kryptonite. They were with my son and they are now with my daughter. I don't like them. I've read about them, I'm prepared for them, and I do the best I can for all of us through them. Annnnnnd they suck.
Newborn through one year, that was the sweetest. I love four and I'm really excited about five. Who knows how I'll feel about six and beyond — we'll find out when we get there.
I will do my best to be present, to love and guide them, to support and protect them, to give them roots and wings, and teach them to respect the power of both. I will do my best.
We're all just doing our best.
Whether we enjoy it or not.
“I can give them all the love, direction, and attention they need and also be pissed as hell there is a raisin in my ear.”
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Empty Nest Syndrome is the feeling of emptiness and loneliness that many parents experience when their child or children leave home. It is not a recognized clinical illness. It's grief.
And change.
And a question: Who am I now?
The first morning without them. The house is quiet. The silence is loud. And you look in the mirror and wonder just who the hell you're supposed to be now.
But what if you didn't have to wonder?
What if instead of needing to find out who you are you never lost yourself in the first place?
What if you took time to find yourself, to reclaim yourself NOW, while you are still actively mothering?
There will always be grief when a child leaves us to go out into the world. It is the end of something that has been a huge part of our lives and our identities for decades. But it doesn't have to be terrifying.
Start where you are.
Who are you, now? If you had to describe yourself without saying anything about your children, what would you say?
This can be the hardest part for mothers. So many of us have completely lost ourselves inside the role of "Mother" that we don't remember who we are, or who we were. So if you feel like you're getting stuck on this step, please know you are not alone.
Sit with this and let it take as long as it takes. One of the simplest ways to "meet yourself" is to daydream. Get to school pick up five minutes early. Sit in the parking lot of the grocery store, or your office, or literally anywhere for five minutes and just let your mind wander to YOU.
Remember your hopes, your dreams, your plans.
Remember your half-finished projects and long unused skills.
Remember yourself.
Because the truth is you never left. When you became a mother you did not unmake yourself. And no matter what society's expectations are, there is no reason for you to do so. You can dream yourself back. I know it sounds silly, sounds too simple, sounds ridiculous — but it works. It doesn't take a lot of time, or any money, or even a belief that it is possible.
All it takes is you thinking about YOU.
Small things will start to return. That you always wanted to learn how to bake, or woodwork, or write dirty haiku. Maybe you love to run or play basketball. Maybe you want to paint or read every book by a specific author. Maybe you want to give a TED Talk or set up a science lab in your basement.
Maybe your list is a mile long.
Maybe there is one thing in your heart.
I wish that I could tell you there was a fast, easy way to do this. If I could snap my fingers and bring you back to yourself, I promise I would. But the truth is that while your self didn't disappear, it did change. We cannot pretend that motherhood leaves no mark, that it takes up no room, and that you can simply click your heels together three times and be back to your old self.
Or that you'd even want to.
What comes next is a journey of reclamation and integration. Seeing yourself fully — who you are, what you want, what you need — and remembering who you were and what you have. Those are all things that take time, that take work.
We are always becoming who we will be. And so there is always time to reclaim parts of yourself. Time to discover new ways for them to fit into your life.
I'm not saying to run away and leave your four children to realize your dream of conducting chemistry experiments on the International Space Station. I'm saying find a chemistry class at a local university you can audit. Or an online course. Find a club on meetup.com or get a subscription box. I'm saying start keeping a science journal again with all the questions you'd like answered and all the experiments you'd like to run.
Remember your old self.
Bring them along as you keep becoming who you will be.
And now the nest is never empty — even when the chicks fly away.
Yes, you will still worry about them. Yes, the silence will still be LOUD. Yes, you will miss them.
But you will not wonder who you are, now. You will not wonder how you'll fill your days. You will not have a million dreams that have been put on hold. There will be much less regret.
Because you will have been living your life all along and not simply existing next to the lives of your children. You will be able to enter the next phase of your life with joy and anticipation.
What if you took time to find yourself, to reclaim yourself, while you are still actively mothering?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
How many times have you opened your mouth only to hear your mother's voice come out? Did you await that day with terror or were you hoping and praying to someday have her grace and wisdom? This post is for the ones of us who dread hearing her voice move through us. It is for the ones who are terrified we will turn into her.
No matter what your relationship with your mother is or was, you do NOT have to turn into her. It is not inevitable. We can each chart our own paths.
But how?
What does it say? Is it the voice of judgment on your parenting? When you hear that voice in your head or coming out of your mouth, do you like what you hear?
When you hear it, stop and ask yourself — is this actually true? Just because your mother said it to you doesn't mean that it's real or true. And it doesn't mean you need to carry it or pass it on to your children either. Stop and really listen to the things you say to yourself and the way you treat yourself. How much of her voice is hurting you?
Question it every time. Don't let her judgment, her trauma, or her pain become your inner voice. You are worthy of so much more than that.
When does it show up? Do you hear her when you need her? Or do you hear her when you are about to take a chance, do something different, or stretch in a new direction?
Identify when her voice comes to you and through you. When you're scared, hurt, or stressed you're more vulnerable to slipping into patterns of harm. Once you know when it usually happens, you can take steps to avoid it or to support yourself through those rough times.
Is it helpful? Is it wisdom you can lean on? A light guiding you through the darkness? Or is her voice painful to hear and to speak with?
This may seem obvious, but stopping and reminding yourself that this is not helpful can go a long way. So many times we don't notice until we've said the words that they aren't our own. We don't realize until after we've reacted that we are operating the way she would, and not the way we want to. We slip into being our mothers because that is the way we were taught to mother.
We cannot change our pasts. We cannot make our mothers or our own childhoods any different than they were. We can change our lives now and we can change the people we are becoming.
If you feel your mother's voice as a weight, as an expectation you can never live up to — you have time to shake that off. You can set that down.
If you have a complicated relationship with your mother and with the parts of you that are like her, you have the ability to reconcile those. You do NOT have to turn into her. You can forge a new path.
But we have to STOP. We have to see it, notice it, name it. Remember it is NOT you and you have a choice. You can let her go.
What do you want for yourself?
Do you want to repair the relationship you have with your mother? Do you want to heal from the relationship you had with her? Do you want to finally be free of it?
If you were happy and healthy and free — what would that life look like? Can you see it? Close your eyes and think about how it would feel to be healed from the pain in your relationship with your mother. Really sit in what that would mean for your life.
For you.
For your child(ren).
There is no magic potion that will bring you that peace and that freedom. You may need therapy. You may need time. You may need to write about it, to sing about it, to paint about it. You may need to run it out. You may need to pray about it.
I wish I could give you THE ANSWER™ to reconcile the mothers we had with the mothers we are. But there is no one answer. What I can tell you is that the future has not been written. Healing and freedom are possible for you, for all of us. I can promise you it's not just you. You are not alone on this journey to healing.
Just because your mother said it to you doesn't mean that it's real or true.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Where is the support for moms? I hear this question all the time. I ask this question all the time. And the answer is that it’s scarce. We don’t value mothers or mothering in this country. That’s just a fact. And so mothers have stepped up to create networks of support for ourselves. We’re doing the best we can and our best is beautiful.
And still…
Mothers of teens seem to be left behind when it comes to self-care, coaching, support groups — all of it. That is my fault just as much as anyone else, and I’m here today to apologize and to begin to make it right. I was so caught up in my own pain and healing, my own story, that I didn’t see your struggles. I’m sorry. I see you. I will do better.
Because the truth is that mothers of teens report being the MOST stressed and the LEAST happy in their experience of motherhood. They’re hurting. And what they are hearing from the rest of us is a lot of clucking about how hard the teens years are for everyone. They are getting pats on the head when what they need are structures of support.
At the very least we can stop patronizing them. We can stop making jokes about how dramatic teens are and start talking about the rising suicide rates. We can stop making jokes about kids who will never leave home and start talking about how we can reform our high school and college systems so kids have a place to go and a path to get there.
Parents of teens are worried about the same things that all parents are. How do I keep my child safe? How do I prepare them for this world? How do I balance my needs and theirs? How do I raise a good person? And while I know every age and stage is a pressure cooker of worries and hard choices, for the parents of teens the consequences are much more immediate. The time on their “active parenting” clock is running out.
And because there is so little support for mothers from pregnancy onward, by the time they hit the teen years many mothers have been “pouring from an empty cup” for so long they have no idea how it would feel to be full. They can’t imagine it. And so they look behind them and tell mothers of new babies, “Take care of you. Don’t lose yourself.” And no one ever asks if they are OK.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was one of those who didn’t see you.
My friend Kelly leaves me in awe. That is not hyperbole. I have been brought to tears by what an amazing mother she is (I have a witness). Kelly has five kids, two are teens and the youngest is a toddler and people say to her all the time, “I don’t know how you do it.” And that’s crap. Yes, you do. She does it the same way that we all do it — with love and sweat and tears and doubts and pain and terror and hope and laughter and never, ever, EVER enough sleep. I have seen Kelly through the lens of a baby/toddler mom because my kids are just slightly older and younger than her littlest. It didn’t hit me until this week just how long she has been mothering. Years. DECADES. And just how little support she’s gotten.
I started The Mom Center so that mothers would have a place to be honest about motherhood. So that we would have a place to find support. So that we would have a place to focus on ourselves as people. I’ve said that I started it because I refuse to allow my children to leave my house and go out into the world and leave me wondering who I am without them. And that is true. But as I’ve been sharing it and as others have, we have all focused on the new mom, the toddler mom, the preschool mom. We haven’t looked into the eyes of the teen mom or the mom with college-aged kids and said, “I see you. I’m here. What do you need?”
Maybe it’s because I was scared of what I would see there. Who really wants to look that deeply into their future? Maybe it was because I just couldn’t see beyond myself and my own experiences. Whatever the reason was, I am saying it now. For Kelly. For Gayle. For LaTonya. For all the mothers of teens that I didn’t see.
Hi mamas,
I’m sorry that I didn’t see you. I’m sorry that we all seem to have forgotten you. It is not only new mothers who need to focus on themselves and their own physical, emotional and mental health. You are important. You always have been.
I am inviting you, specifically, to join us in The Mom Center, we’d love to have you. I also want to thank the members of The Mom Center who are also moms of teens and who have been such a wonderful part of our community.
If our group is not for you, please know that I support you in finding whatever self-care works best. And if you need me, I’m here.
Take Good Care,
Graeme
I know you’re getting pats on the head when what you need are structures of support.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
It is time to grow up. Those are the words my self has been whispering to me.
It is time to grow up.
Hmmm… I thought I had.
I've got two kids, a relationship, and a business.
GROW. UP. The whispers get louder.
My astrologically minded friends tell me this is Saturn in Capricorn. My therapist friends tell me this is part of my healing process. My mom friends say it is all about me coming out of the fog of newborn/baby/toddlerhood, and that I have maturity on the brain.
I think this is actually about deepening my self-care practice. I take care of my children, my house, my family. But when it comes to my business, my body, and my emotions, I scramble around putting out fires instead of nurturing the slow and steady growth that I want.
So I guess it is time to finally grow up. All the way up. It is time to work on becoming a healthy adult who cares for herself fully.
I'm a nerd, so the first thing I did was reach for a book — three books, actually. There's nothing new about this. I read — A LOT. And I happen to read a lot of self-help and personal growth books as a consequence of my profession. I read them like a miner panning for gold. I'm looking for the words, phrases, and ideas that will help the mothers I work with the most.
Yesterday I decided I would read only for myself and not my mom brain.
Sunday in our house is a "home day.” We don't go anywhere and Adam and I both try our best not to work. It's a day of transition when we focus on getting ready for the week ahead and resting up from whatever fun we had on Saturday. So, while one kiddo napped and the other worked on Legos with Dad, I got myself set up in the bathroom for some me time. I ran a bath, dropped in a fabulous smelling bomb, laid out my books, and settled in for some quiet time to focus my mind.
The first book was great. Interesting, and engagingly written — it had practical exercises sprinkled in amongst the mindset shifts and spiritual connection. I should have loved it. But I couldn't concentrate.
There were ideas that could so easily be adapted to use with kids, and my mind started wandering to how I could be a better mother. I pulled it back in only to find another nugget that one of my clients really needed to read.
But I wasn't getting anything out of this book FOR ME. And it wasn't because there weren't wonderful ideas in the book, it was because I am so used to giving to others that the act of focusing on myself feels foreign to me. It takes work. I have to fight against all of my natural inclinations.
Or do I?
I switched books and the same thing happened. My frustration mounted. I put everything down, sat back in the bath, and drank my water. I counted my breaths in and out and waited for my mind to calm with the idea that I'd enjoy the water until it cooled, then get out and try reading later that night once the kids were asleep.
That's when the idea hit me.
What if I read books for my own enjoyment and not just for my mom brain?
The problem is that I haven't trained my brain to think about myself. My mom brain automatically keeps my family and my clients at the top of my priority list. I wasn't going to be able to fix that by waiting until the kids were in bed. I have to fix it by retraining my brain. And just like it took time for my brain to get like this, it will take time to change it.
Am I worth that kind of work? That amount of time? It will probably be annoying and frustrating. Am I worth it?
YES (and so are you).
Here is how I'm retraining my brain:
I have tucked a few sheets of loose leaf notebook paper into the back of the books I'm reading. When I come to an idea that makes me think of my family or my work, I stop and note down on the paper the page and line where the inspiration struck and a quick note about the idea. Then I stop and take a breath and refocus myself ON MYSELF before I start reading again.
I don't have to worry about remembering the ideas. I don't get lost going down an inspiration rabbit hole. I don't lose focus on myself.
Or rather, I continually REfocus on myself.
I'm teaching my brain that I am just as important as my children, as Adam, as my clients. I'm teaching my brain that spending time on myself isn't a waste — it's a priority. I'm redefining what it means for me to grow up, but taking control of and responsibility for my growth.
I'm also enjoying the books I'm reading again. The reading is flowing again and more and more the ah-ha moments that pop up are about me. It feels wonderful to connect with a book this way. I'm loving this.
How about you? Where have you trained your brain to put yourself last? What could you do to retrain it? Leave me a comment — I'd love to hear your ideas!
Where have you trained your brain to put yourself last?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
This isn't your normal blog post. This is an action post. Ready? Let’s get started!
Open a new Google Calendar, your planner, or anything that has hours of the day on it. We’re going to rearrange your life so you can’t hide anymore.
Put in the time you wake up.
Block off the time you shower, eat breakfast, get dressed — whatever you do before leaving the house.
Block off your commute if you work outside the home.
Block off dropping the kids at school/daycare.
Put in the time you work.
Don’t leave your lunchtime open. I see you. BLOCK IT OFF.
Stay-at-home moms and work-at-home moms — block off your basic routine. When do you work? When do you run errands? Block it all off.
Now the commute home, the kiddo pick up.
After-school activities.
Dinner.
Helping with homework.
Cleaning up.
Bath/teeth brushing/storytime/bedtime/ten million glasses of water time.
Look at that calendar. That’s what your life looks like on paper. This is why you’re tired, pissed off, forgetful. This is why self-care doesn’t happen unless you put it on the calendar and create actual room for it.
BUT
There’s a way to make this calendar work for you instead of against you. Starting today, right now (NOT next Monday and NOT January 1st), you are going to put yourself on the calendar. What do I mean by that?
Step 1:
Look at what you already have down. Try to make those time blocks as specific as you can. Then look and see what absolutely has to be done by you, and what could be either totally passed off or become a shared responsibility. Ask whomever you need to ask and set up whatever you need to put in place. Make the corresponding changes to your calendar. Maybe nothing at all changed — that’s OK.
Step 2:
Make a list of the things you need for your physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health. Doctor, dentist, and optometrist visits go on the list. Lunch with a friend goes on the list. Therapy appointments, time outside, laughter, spiritual study — whatever it is that you need, it goes on the list.
Step 3:
Put yourself on the calendar. None of those things on your list will happen unless you stick your elbows out and make some room in your life. You are going to reclaim your time using this calendar. Make the appointments and block off that time.
The five minutes of singing, or breathing, or silence in the car before you drive home — CLAIM IT.
That half an hour you always wanted to take a bath but could never find the time? CLAIM IT.
20 minutes for journaling.
An hour for organizing your closet.
45 minutes to take an exercise class.
Whatever it is that you need, you need to claim the time for it.
Step 4:
Guard your time. The calendar doesn’t work unless you work it. Your journaling time is just as important as your doctor’s appointment. The time you have reclaimed as yours is just that — YOURS. Things that conflict with that will need to be moved, someone else will need to handle them, or the answer will be no.
Let’s rearrange your life so you can’t hide anymore.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Tomorrow is your second birthday and somehow that is shocking to me. Where did an entire year go? Wasn't I just writing to you on your first birthday last week? Once again I'm sick for your big day. I hope this doesn't become a trend — it's not fun for anyone.
So how have you changed?
You haven't. You're simply MORE you. My deepest wish for you is that this is how you continue to grow each year — discovering more of yourself and the world.
Like your brother before you, you've got a speech therapist. When we're working on a word and suddenly you pronounce it in a way that lets us understand, you are always so proud. You clap and raise your arms and yell, "Woo-Hoo!" and what cracks me up each time is that you are proud of us. You're proud of Whitney and me for finally understanding your brilliance. You pat our cheeks and clap for us and you are so gracious in your support. It has simply never occurred to you that the problem could be in your speech and not in our understanding. I really love that about you.
You love learning things, you love to figure things out. You LOVE and you do it intensely. For all the times you laugh at me when I tell you to stop doing something there are times when you squeal with glee when I walk through the door — even if I only stepped out to go to the mailbox.
That joy that's inside you, the depth and breadth of it, is a miracle. I promise to do everything I can to help you to hold on to it.
Everyone around you is in love with you. Your dad, your brother, your grandparents, your aunts, your uncle, your godparents — so many people wrapped around those tiny fingers that your hands must hurt. Believe me when I say that there is no one in this universe who loves you like I do. I will do all I can to help you to learn and become who you are.
We're moving soon. This will be your last year here and I worry about what we're leaving behind. I worry about breaking your connection to your roots here. But I know that your family here and your connections to this land will never let you go. These are roots that will help you take wing.
Right now you're asleep in your crib. We are down to one nap a day, usually after you have spent your morning ruling over the daycare with an iron crayon. You love your blankie, Woof-Woof (the dog), Baby Pooh, and Giraffe. We aren't very creative with toy names in this house. These are your friends who must all be in the crib before you will even consider sleeping. Just recently you've started taking books in too. You 'read' them to your friends. In the dark. It's adorable.
And that's the thing — holy crap you are so freaking cute. SO CUTE. You literally walked around pinching your own cheeks yesterday — that's how cute you are! And I'm pretty sure that you're also a genius. So this means my job is to make sure that when you do eventually take over the world you're a benevolent dictator...
But seriously, I hope the future you who is reading this letter feels grounded in my love and in the knowledge of your own worth. I hope that you have embraced your beauty. I hope that you have embraced your genius. I hope that you have boundaries and pride and grace and fierce fire. I hope you're still funny. I hope you have learned to walk with fear. I hope that I've given you wings… and talons.
Most of all I hope that you know that I absolutely adore you. You are everything I always wanted in a daughter. You are simply everything.
Love,
Mama
ps - When you say, "Shhhhh. Stop" every time I start to sing during Beauty and the Beast or Moana it is not nearly as cute as you think it is. Feel free to let that go this year.
Where did an entire year go?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I refuse to be a Sacrificial Mother. That includes lying about my kids or about kids in general. Sometimes kids are assholes. It's a side effect of being human. And the real truth, the part we're never supposed to say out loud, is that I simply don't like them all the time. Like, for instance, the entire year of three.
THREE SUCKED. There was a part of every single day, and a huge part of many days, that truly, deeply sucked.
From what I've read about childhood development, what I've heard from other parents and experts, and what I've lived through with my kid and other children, I have come to the conclusion I don't like three-year-olds. It's a stage that pushes every single button I have. In a row. And then all at once. So. Much. Fun.
But this post isn't about that. It's about the fact that every single time I say that, or any version of that, someone comes along to shut me up. They don't know me that well.
I'm here to speak my truth. I'm here to hold space for other mothers and parents to speak their truth. I will hold space for that. I will hold those boundaries.
This time it was a Facebook post. I was thinking about the fact that I just don't like three-year-olds and wondering what other ages and stages people dislike. I mean, we hear all the time about how tough raising teenagers is. And I have many friends who truly hate the newborn stage, but they never get to talk about that. Why can't we say it? Why do others take it so personally when we do?
Why do others take it so personally when mothers speak their truth?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I feel like I'm not doing this right! I know I should be better at this, but...
I know this isn't the right way to do this, but...
Everyone take a deep breath. Now, another one. I'm not kidding. Breathe in for a few counts and then out for a few.
THAT WAS SELF-CARE.
So is reading this blog post, in fact. Self-care is, literally, anything you do to take care of yourself. It does NOT mean that it has to be some luxurious thing, it does NOT have to be done alone. The rules are simple: Is this an activity you engage in to CARE FOR YOURSELF? If yes, congratulations!
Now, are there some things that will be more effective than others? Yes. Can I tell you what they are? Nope.
But Graeme, you're an expert! This is your job!
Actually, no. My job is to help you figure out what will work best for you. My job is to help you implement those ideas and fine-tune them. My job is to assist you in creating and sustaining a self-care practice that helps you thrive.
That may include therapy.
Or exercise.
A change in diet.
Or regular massages.
It may mean learning how to budget.
Or play the tuba.
Setting your bills to autopay.
Getting a new job.
Or a dog.
Or a partner.
There is so much judgment around self-care, especially in motherhood circles, and it raises my blood pressure every time. So my self-care is writing this post and reminding you that if you are spending time and attention on yourself, you are doing it right.
When we begin to change our lives, it's scary. We want a roadmap. We want to know we are doing it "right.” I understand. I'm the exact same way. The problem (and the solution) is that there is no one right way. There are only data points.
Let’s pretend that for a few days, you try putting yourself on a bedtime routine. On the fourth day, you get distracted by Netflix and totally miss your bedtime. Does this mean the routine doesn't work? Is it a sign you can't stick with anything? Or does it simply mean that one night you got distracted?
How do you get back on track? By realizing that you never got off the track to begin with.
Routines and habits are decisions we have made so many times that we forget we are making them. But they are still decisions. You can always decide to go back to them. Missing your bedtime routine one night (or five in a row) doesn't stop you from doing it tonight. Noticing that it is already an hour past your bedtime doesn't stop you from doing it right now.
You are not getting it wrong.
You aren't screwing it up.
Self-care is not one more arena where we need to strive for perfection. It can be the safe place where you explore the beauty of imperfection.
What happens when you forget to book the massage, but you've already gotten childcare? Maybe you end up going for a walk downtown for an hour or meeting up with a friend. Maybe you take a nap or you go to the gym. Maybe you sit on a bench in a park and simply have time alone, with no one needing anything at all from you, and bask in the ability to hear your own thoughts.
There are a million ways to care for yourself, and you are the perfect person to do it.
Is there a right way to do self-care? Yes. But it’s not what you think.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I had just told my mother that I was pregnant.
Unmarried.
Without a full-time job.
In a shitty living situation.
Dating Adam for only a few months.
And pregnant.
I sobbed. I shook. I was choked and nauseous with fear when she told me, "You have to calm down. The baby can feel everything you're feeling".
And that's how I stopped being a person and became a mother. Personhood was stolen from me at that moment. As I'm sure it had been stolen from my mother, and hers, and each of the women in my matrilineal past as far back as we can imagine.
And though I understand where it came from, that sentence broke something between me and my mother that has never been repaired. It broke something open in me as well. Something that has sprouted and is flowering now.
I no longer believe that the greatest virtue of motherhood is sacrifice. I no longer believe that loving my children means constantly putting their wants and needs before mine. I am dedicated to sticking my elbows out in my life.
Fall is coming. Children are going back to school and the essays are starting. They are all about change and freedom, transitions and fear, love and hope. The mother sending her oldest to first grade, the mother sending her youngest to high school, they each talk about how quickly the time has passed. There are funny bits about finally getting to use the bathroom alone and heart-wrenching truths about the pieces of ourselves that get left behind with each passing year of our children's lives only to be discovered like discarded tennis shoes in the back of the garage as they pack up for college.
I have made a promise to myself. I will not watch my children leave my house in 15 years and wonder who the hell I'm supposed to be now. I'm not waiting to live until I've taught them how. No matter how much I love them, I cannot allow their lives to swallow mine.
I am a whole human being. For a long time, I thought that I had to shrink myself, stretch myself, contort myself into the shape of mother. I set aside parts of myself, I put away loves, I turned my back on solitude, I walked away from silence. I broke off all of the pieces of me that didn't fit into the Mom Mold.
No more.
I am finding the pieces of myself and figuring out where they fit. I'm learning that I was always worthy — of time, of love, of peace, of my children. I'm studying balance and practicing resilience. And there are times that I choose my wants and needs over those of my children. I'm not going to stop. This is what it looks like when I become a priority in my life and in my family. It looks like give and take. It looks like send and receive.
It's hard. It's hard to know who to prioritize when. It's hard to break out of the mold that society tried to force me into every day. It is hard to live free.
I do it because I want my children to see a new definition of mother.
I do it because I want to keep the woman that Adam fell in love with.
I do it because I refuse to believe that motherhood is sacrifice.
I refuse to be a sacrificial mother.
I cannot allow their lives to swallow mine.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Melissa Harris-Perry wrote an article for Elle.com about self-care that has a lot of people talking. When I first saw mention of it I was excited — finally, someone with clout was going to talk about self-care for Black women! Then I read the pull quote at the top of the piece. I'm not sure what I was expecting but this was not it:
I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THAT SELF-CARE IS NECESSARY FOR HEALTH AND WELL-BEING.
Ummm... whaaaaaa?
Eating well isn't necessary?
Showering isn't necessary?
Valuing yourself isn't necessary?
Paying bills.
Going to the doctor.
Going to the therapist.
Drinking water.
Exercising.
Acknowledging your dreams, hopes, and desires. Working towards them.
Setting boundaries.
Surely she believes those things are necessary for health and well-being, I thought. Surely she is not going to write an article in a magazine with a reach like Elle, and be another voice telling us to look outside ourselves for validation.
And she isn't, exactly.
For Harris-Perry it was the love, strength, and straight talk of her girlfriends that she credits with saving her life. I don't argue that being true. As someone who has worked in peer-support for five years and been a woman for 38, I can testify to the power of a circle of girlfriends.
The trap I believe she fell into in this piece is the same trap that millions of women around the world have found themselves in — she let Instagram replace Merriam-Webster. "Distilled into bath bombs and marketed to the consumer class, self-care can come off as a collection of hipster luxury items—a visible manifestation of excess time and resources spent massaging trigger points and pushing back cuticles."
The thing that she missed? NONE OF THOSE THINGS ARE SELF-CARE. It is, quite literally, taking care of yourself. That can mean physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually. It can mean nurturing a relationship like the beautiful friendship that saved her life. It can (and hopefully does) also mean nurturing that kind of relationship with ourselves. It means learning about ourselves and what we truly need, what makes us happy, what makes us strong. It means asking for those things from our community.
Self-care does not mean isolation. It does not mean disconnection. It does not mean that we only get what we can give ourselves. Harris-Perry writes, "Ultimately, self-care encourages women to rely solely on themselves rather than to make demands on anyone or anything else." And that line made me unutterably sad. Because ultimately what self-care actually does is highlight our need for healthy connection.
The more I learn about myself, how my brain works, how my heart works, what my soul needs — the more I learn about the value of the friendships in my life. We care for each other, deeply. We have saved each other's lives. We also remind each other regularly that we matter. That we are full human beings who are allowed to focus on our own wants, needs, and desires. We remind each other to ask for what we need. We remind each other of our intrinsic magic. Those reminders are self-care. We are literally reminding each other to think of ourselves. It is the foundation of self-care.
"Self-care validates as good and noble all of those women with sufficient resources to "take a break" from the hustle and bustle while it censures those who seek relief from the collective care of the state—through child care subsidies, food assistance, low-income or subsidized housing, or health care."
No. Instagram #selfcare does that.
Actual self-care centers the person and insists that we recognize our needs as valid. Each of us. All of us. Applying for Medicaid was one of the biggest acts of self-care that I ever took. It allowed me to get medical care for myself and my son while I was pregnant. It allowed me to get psychiatric care when I suffered from postpartum depression and anxiety.
Applying for SNAP benefits is self-care. Creating a crowdfunding campaign is self-care. Dropping your PayPal link on Facebook is self-care. Asking for what you need. Knowing your needs matter and allowing your community to help meet them IS SELF CARE. It is you, taking care of yourself by reaching out.
I can't tell you how many times I have heard a mother say, "I would never ask this for myself, but my child needs..." Oh, mama, no. YOU are worthy. Always and in all ways. Practicing self-care is knowing that you can ask for yourself. That you are worthy of love, of care, of support, and of community. When Harris-Perry talks of #SquadCare vs Self-Care she misses something big.
For a Black woman to practice self-care we must first see ourselves as fully human and deserving of care in a world that sees us as neither and actively denies us the tools to care for ourselves.
To be a Black woman engaged in self-care is a radical act.
To learn about ourselves, understand ourselves, care for ourselves, take up space, survive and fucking thrive is revolutionary.
When I say self-care, that is what I mean.
I have an intimate squad of amazing women. I also have a Self-Care Squad of just over 1200 women who are defining what self-care is to them. Harris-Perry proudly declared that she doesn't have a self-care routine. I don't either, but I do have a self-care practice that includes:
Those are all a part of my self-care routine. They are all things I do alone. They are all things that no one else can do for me. I'm a good friend to many women, and I'm working on being a good friend to myself as well.
Practicing self-care is knowing that you can ask for yourself.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Self-care seems to be having a moment right now. It's everywhere. All over social media, in print advertising, and on my TV I see women asking each other what they're doing for self-care. I see companies selling women self-care. I see so, so many people who have no clue what they are talking about. This isn't the first time I've written about the way we sell self-care. Sometimes I feel like I'm screaming into the wind about this. But then I hear from a potential client that they aren't sure that they need self-care because all the massages and bubble baths in the world won't fix their problems.
So let's talk about it. Let's take this word back from the marketers and back to its roots.
That’s right. Self care is anything we do in order to take care of our selves.
It's that simple. It is literally about focusing on and caring for yourself. So why do women, and why do moms especially, seem to suck at it?
Because we are programmed to.
Most of us were taught from childhood to take care of others, to be nice, to be generous, to be kind. And those are wonderful things to teach children.
But what weren't we taught?
We weren't taught to pay attention to our needs. We weren't taught to listen to our bodies. We weren't taught how to express our emotions in healthy ways. We weren't taught how to set boundaries.
We were not taught that we are worthy.
And it's not just us. Our partners were not taught that we are worthy. They weren't taught that mothers are human beings FIRST. They weren't taught that we have a full range of human needs and desires that are JUST AS IMPORTANT as those of our partners and children. So what we end up with is an entire household leaning on a mother and a mother who believes herself weak when she cannot bear the weight. Sacrifice becomes the highest virtue of motherhood and "self-care" becomes a joke that moms tell over extra large glasses of wine.
And if it sounds like I'm pissed off about it, that's because I AM PISSED OFF ABOUT IT. I've met far too many mothers who believe that taking the time to think about themselves is selfish. They say yes because they never learned how to say no. They assume that everyone else has it figured out and they are the only ones floundering. They believe the hype — that their partners can't parent as well as they can, that the emotional load of the family belongs to them, that they have to "earn" a break.
AND IT'S BULLSHIT.
The first step to true self-care is learning about your self. For as many times as I've bemoaned the fact that my children didn't come with an owner's manual, I missed something essential. I do have an owner's manual. You do too. We can actually figure out what we need in order to thrive. We do know how to care for ourselves.
It may take work. You may have to dig through all the layers of lies that have been heaped on your head by society, by the media, by your friends, your family — by you. You may have to strain at first to locate the voice inside you that has gone hoarse from screaming unheard for so long.
Once you hear it, you may have to fight against the impulse to disbelieve it, to tell it that your hopes and dreams, your wants and needs are impossible. You may have to fight battles over boundaries and bandage wounds you never knew existed.
It may be a slow process of discovery, of meeting yourself in new ideas. It may be a revelation like a thunderclap. It may take all of your might to push back against societal expectations and systemic oppression to stand in the sun in the fullness of YOU. But it can be done. It is being done by mothers every day.
We are, each of us, unique. Our journeys to ourselves, to our own self care practices, will be unique as well. That does not mean that we must walk alone. Creating community with each other can be one of the most powerful ways to begin our self discovery. If you’re ready for self care that is deeper than a massage and more potent than a bath bomb, we’re here. Let’s do this.
We weren’t taught that we are worthy.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
What if you were worthy? How would that change your life? What if you were worthy of being loved? Even when you don’t love yourself.
What if you were worthy of time? Even when it feels like there isn't any.
What if you were worthy of space? Even if you need to stretch out your elbows to get it.
What if you were worthy of comfort? Even when everything hurts.
What if you were worthy of money? Even when you aren't bringing any into your family.
What if you were worthy of rest?
Of respect?
Of silliness and laughter and joy?
Of hugs?
Of seriously amazing orgasms? (Yeah, I SAID IT.)
Of time alone?
Of support?
Of health?
Of happiness?
What if you were simply worthy of these things, these feelings, these luxuries — no matter what you did or did not do? What if you didn't need to earn anything, but believed in every fiber of your being that YOU ARE WORTHY?
What would your life look like then? What would change?
How would everything be different if we each started from a place of worth? I know that I enter my days from a place of need, usually. The list of things I need to get done starts running through my head before I open my eyes. The knowledge that I don't have the tools or the time I need to get everything done follows me throughout my day. The needs of my family, my friends, and my clients find me and cling to me. And my children — I am constantly thinking about what my children needed yesterday, what they need now, and what they will need tomorrow.
How would the script of my days change if I was firmly planted in a place of worth? If I was worth getting up a few minutes early so that I could enjoy the silent house. If I was worth sleeping in a few minutes late. How would the arc of my life change if I felt I was truly worth the time and energy of my mentors and the attention and money of my clients?
What would life be like if we didn't apologize for our needs? If we stood grounded in our worth as human beings and saw the inherent worth in others, could we then change the world?
What do you think? What do you feel unworthy of now? How would you like to change that?
How would the arc of your life change if you were?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
A short list of what I worried about today:
This is just the kid stuff, not Adam, my business, or my running list of personal worries. I'm one of those people who only ever wanted to be in charge because my anxiety would eat me up if I wasn't. How do you know that it's all being done right unless you're doing it yourself?
But it isn't being done right. There is no right.
Adam asked me tonight what he could take off of my plate. I asked him why it was my plate.
That's the heart and the center of it. I'm the scheduler, the asker, the planner, the manager of our house. He's the doer. Running a family takes management, someone has to hold the plans in their head.
My head is full, though. Taking things off of the plate is no longer enough. I need to put the plate down. I need to step away from it. I need Adam to step up to the plate. (I need this metaphor to let me go…)
My son hasn't been to the dentist since my daughter was born. Is it because we don't value dental care? No. Is it because we don't think that good dental habits need to start early? No. Is it because we don't have coverage or couldn't afford it? Nope.
It's because I run two businesses and have two kids. It's because he was born in summer and she was born in the fall, and none of their medical schedules sync up at all. It's because I keep thinking that if I could just get more organized, I could juggle all of the balls.
This even as I tell my clients every day to PUT. THE. BALLS. DOWN.
I don't know what the answer is — for my family or yours. We're talking about it. We're trying to figure out what fair looks like, what a division of labor that plays to our strengths looks like. We are trying to figure out what partnership looks like. Because when it comes to managing this family alone? I quit.
If you know a single parent please take a moment and reach out to them today. Let them know that you see them. Ask them what you can take off of their plate. There is always something we can do to help.
Why is it “my plate”?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
First of all, you should know that I did not approve this. I did not say that it was okay for you to just keep growing and changing. Where are my chubby little legs? Where are my tiny baby toes? Mommy votes no.
That's another thing — at some point this year I went from being Mama to Mommy and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Mommy is something that kids say. Children. Not babies.
I may need to come to terms with the fact that you aren't a baby anymore. Shit.
I'll be honest, kiddo, three was a rough year. So many of the things that make you you were just gone. My quiet, thoughtful little dude turned into a raging threenager who was snarky and loud, demanding and angry a lot. You tested us pretty much every day. I like to think we passed.
Three was also the year you made your first best friend. Her name was Vivienne and for about a month she was your best bud. And then you found out that Keegan had Legos at his house AND a dog and Vivienne was out. Since then it's been all Keegan all the time.
I love the way you love people. The way you always want to show every new toy or book you get to Keegan. I love the way you take care of your sister and try to make her feel better when she's upset. I love the way you get so excited when your dad comes home from work, or when your grandparents come to visit.
You try to figure everything out on your own, working through problems out loud in these mutters that I'm not sure you know we can hear. But I love the window it gives me into how your mind works.
You are, quite simply, the most beautiful boy that has ever been born in the history of the world. You are so freaking funny. And you're really smart. You have your dad's engineering type of smarts where you see the world as a puzzle to solve. You have the biggest heart. You give the best hugs.
Thank you for thinking I'm funny. For loving our family. For being so sweet and caring. Thank you for trying to listen. Thank you for telling me when you're scared or sad. Thank you for still sitting on my lap and giving me hugs. Thank you for pronouncing really as ree-wee.
Sometimes when we're sitting in our big chair together watching a movie, you reach up and pat my cheek when something sweet happens on screen, and that makes me feel like the most loved mom in the world.
I promise that next year you can have a dog for your birthday. Just please stop growing up so fast.
I love you,
Mommy
I may need to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t a baby anymore.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Whenever I talk about self-care, someone brings up that line. And it rankles me. Cups aren't created to pour from, but to drink from. Self-care is not about being better mothers, wives, partners, daughters, sisters, or friends. It is about taking care of ourselves because we are whole human beings who deserve care and love.
You need care. So do I. We all do. We need food, water, shelter, community, compassion, and love. We need exercise, fresh air, boundaries, stimulation, and rest. We need so many things! Self-care is about literally caring for ourselves.
What if you took care of your body? What would happen if you fed yourself well and kept yourself hydrated and made sure that you had ample exercise and rest? How would your life change if you saw your doctor regularly and followed their advice?
If you went to therapy, could you lead a more fulfilled life? If you learned more about how your brain worked and what it needs, could you change the way you process things and deal with challenges? If you had a coach to help you learn to set and hold boundaries in your life, what could you accomplish?
How would it feel if your own comfort and ease were a priority in your life? What would change if you gave yourself the grace and forgiveness you extend to others? If you put 'make myself smile' on your to-do list each day how would you accomplish that? Can you hold space for the hard emotions in your life? Where do you turn for comfort and reassurance when the pain comes and the tears flow?
Do you know what you believe? Does your faith feed you? Do you have a relationship with something that is greater than yourself? Do you make time to reconnect with the things that fill your soul?
When you take the time and create the space in your life and in the life of your family to fill yourself, so many things change. The transition can be uncomfortable for everyone. Growth often is. But what you are left with in the end is a practice that continually fills you and an overflow that nourishes those around you. It is the cream, after all, that rises to the top. It will be the best of you that you are able to share. And that is a wonderful thing. I love being able to give with depth, sweetness, and richness to my family, friends, and clients.
But I don't do it to pour, I do it to drink. I fill myself because I am a human being who needs care and love. I need me, so I show up for me. How are you showing up for yourself?
Cups weren’t made for pouring.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I was told not to get upset because everything I felt, the baby felt too. I was told not to gain too much weight because it would be a struggle to lose it afterward and that would make it even harder for me to keep Adam around. I was told it was good that I was terrified of being a mother — that meant that I'd be a great one. I was lectured by family, friends, and medical professionals about my diet, exercise, emotional state, clothing choices, and sex drive — all to ensure either a happy baby or a happy partner.
I soon learned that when people asked how I was doing, they wanted to know how the pregnancy was going. Every question, every test, every piece of advice that I got was in relation to the baby.
My fear, my constant nausea, my creeping depression and anxiety — none of them were important next to the child I was carrying. Soon they became less important to me as well.
It didn't matter that I cried at every single OB appointment, because my son was growing just fine.
It didn't matter that I ate until I made myself sick and hated my body, because his kick counts were good.
It didn't matter that I couldn't sleep or that my thoughts raced all night, because the nursery was organized and decorated.
The pre-eclampsia, the Pitocin (and the shocking, searing pain that accompanied it), the emergency C-section, and the crushing feeling of complete and utter failure didn't matter because my baby was here.
The hours when we were apart, the feeling of numbness that came over me as I finally held him, the wall that sprang up between us didn't matter, because he was healthy.
The helpless and hopeless feeling of not knowing anything about how to connect to this tiny soul, the desperate loneliness of not having anyone to ask if I was crazy — that didn't matter because every new mom gets tired. And look how much Adam was helping!
Everyone thought I was such an "Earth Mother" for just whipping out my boob and breastfeeding in front of whoever was in the room — but I was in so much pain from the C-section that I couldn't move to go get privacy. And I was in such a state of panic over the pressure and expectations of breastfeeding that I could only think of stopping that wailing scream as soon as possible.
I longed for peace and quiet. For someone to care for my baby. For someone to care for me. I felt like a ghost in my own life.
No one noticed when I couldn't leave the house.
No one noticed when I didn't shower or seem to care about how I looked.
It was the rage that got everyone's attention. The only feeling that could make it through the heavy, wet fog that surrounded me and past the thick, sweet mask I wore was the rage. It choked me each morning when I woke. It licked at my heels all day long and it roasted me on its spit each night. Eventually, it consumed me and I erupted. That part got attention. After all — what did I have to be angry about?
My rage was a symptom, yes. It's actually one of the most common and least talked about symptoms of postpartum depression and anxiety. But the more I heal and the more clearly I can see that period of my life, the more I see that there were so many things to rage against.
This is a problem for more than just the 19% of all moms and 38% of Black moms who will battle a maternal mental illness like I did. This slow fade is an issue that I see echoed in my conversations with my clients, with my friends, with the members of The Self-Care Squad. So what do we do about it?
We can start by never forgetting that each mother is just as important as their baby and never letting them forget that either. Ask her how she's doing. If she answers you by telling you about the baby, redirect the question so that she knows you are asking about her. Tell her that her health — physical and mental — is just as important as that of her child and back that up with action. Remind her that she is still a whole person, even when it feels like she's been taken over by a huge belly and a life changing responsibility. Offer her space, support, privacy, a shoulder to cry on. Let her know that she can ask you the stupid questions and tell you the scary thoughts.
Look at the pregnant women and new mothers in your life.
Really see them.
Don't let them fade away.
I felt like a ghost in my own life.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I've made some mistakes, y'all and I am so grateful for them. Through my mistakes, I have learned about myself, about others, and about how I want to exist in this world. Much of my work is done online in social media spaces. That is where I host my group, where I do most of my marketing, and where I keep up with friends from around the world. It's also where I make some of my biggest mistakes and where I came to my latest revelation.
You may see the clapbacks, the drags, the 'coming for' folx as manifestations of anger. I did too for quite a while. Now I see the pain beneath the anger, and that has changed everything for me. When we have pain that we haven't resolved, we lash out. Now, I'm not here to talk about whether that lashing out is justified or when and how it may be appropriate. I want to examine where it comes from.
I can only speak for myself, of course, and I'm not a pro at pettiness by any means. There has really only been one thread on social media that I started that was what you'd call a clapback and it was born out of pain. I thought it came from a place of anger. There was definitely anger involved, but if it had simply been anger or exasperation I would have rolled my eyes and moved on. Why couldn't I let it go? Why did I feel the need to publish my rage in as sarcastic a way possible — a way I was sure would garner attention? Why couldn't I "go high"? Because I was hurt.
I'm sure you've all read that before. The more I pay attention the more I see how deeply and profoundly true that simple statement is.
So what can we do about it? How can we practice self-care in the face of our own hurt and anger? What boundaries can we set to protect ourselves from each other's pettiness and pain?
This is what I have been exploring this morning with the help of a dear and wise friend and here is what I have come up with:
These are my rules. This is how I will be taking care of myself in online spaces moving forward. I can't see how spreading the pain helps anyone. I do know for sure that I no longer welcome it in my life.
How I’m taking care of myself online.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
As soon as a family announces a pregnancy, it starts. There is advice, there are gifts, there are doctor appointments, questions, checklists, jokes about how you'll never sleep again, and everyone you meet waxes poetic about the love you're going to feel. We also scare the crap out of moms. We do it regularly. We do it in the name of their (physical) health and the (physical) health of the baby. There are lists of foods to eat and avoid, what you can drink, how much, and when. There are blood tests and genetic tests and glucose tests. There are enough cups of pee to float the entire family across the globe.
No one seems to mind scaring pregnant people about possible physical health risks that are relatively rare. But if you suggest mental health screenings at every OB appointment you hear, "Well, we don't want to worry them". If you suggest that birth classes in hospitals and at birth centers feature information on parental mental health, risk factors, and symptoms you hear, "We don't want to scare them".
20% pregnancies = a mental health issue during pregnancy or in the first year postpartum.
10% pregnancies = preeclampsia
8% pregnancies = gestational diabetes
4% pregnancies = high blood pressure
You know what's terrifying? Going through all of the tests, screenings, and medical hoops that come with pregnancy, giving birth, and then having your entire world come crashing down around you with no idea what is going on or how to get help.
My OB saved my life and my son's life when she diagnosed me with preeclampsia and performed an emergency C-section on me. I will always be grateful to her for that. I will always wish that instead of just asking me, "How are you feeling?" she had used a screening tool and asked me about my mental health. I will always wish that she had pointed out the risk factors for perinatal/postpartum mood and anxiety disorders (PMADs) that were all over my medical chart. I have always wondered how different my postpartum experience would have been if I had been on anti-depressants before my baby was born.
What expectant parents need are birth professionals who are dedicated to their physical and mental health. They need a support system around them who understand these things are linked. They need to know what their risk factors are, they need mental health screening at EVERY SINGLE APPOINTMENT.
Why screen every time? So that the expectant parents understand the importance of their mental health. Screening every time breaks down the stigma associated with PMADs and helps parents realize these issues are important, they are common, and there is help available.
Screen expectant parents at every single appointment because I promise you that you are missing it.
There are some really great screening tools and resources available online.
SCREENING TOOLS/PROVIDER TRAINING
MCPAP For Moms Toolkit For Adult Providers
Perinatal Toolkit For Women's Health Professionals
FOR PATIENTS
There is a wonderful package of tools on the Postpartum Progress website. These were written specifically for new and expectant parents, by parents, and would make a great addition to the information you provide expectant parents. You can download them here.
If you are a parent, were you screened during pregnancy? How often?
If you're a provider, what do you need to begin screening every expectant parent?
We need mental health screening too.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Moms everywhere are overwhelmed. There is too much to do, not enough time, and it seems like everyone else has it all together while you're floundering. I hear you. I've BEEN you (and some days I still am). But I have found some simple self care tricks to use that have helped me fight the overwhelm and get control of my day and my life.
Keep water on your bedside table. When you wake up in the morning, take an extra minute to drink the water and just breathe. Too many of us charge into our days at full speed and never slow down. You can find one minute out of your day to hydrate your body and give your mind a moment to fully engage.
Become a rock star in your car. This is one of my very favorite ways to change my mood! You can do this while driving the kids to school, driving yourself to work, running errands — any time you're in the car. Bring your favorite song (or songs) along with you and ROCK OUT. Sing at the top of your lungs, play air guitar or drums at red lights, make funny rock star faces. Embrace joy and release anger and stress, even if only for a few minutes.
Take a (non) smoking break. One of the things I missed when I quit smoking was the way it broke up my day. I loved walking outside and having a few minutes to myself. But there is really no reason it should only be smokers who get smoke breaks! The easiest way to do this is to put it on your calendar or on your phone. Two or three times a day just stop for a moment, walk outside and take a deep breath, do some stretching, or read a few pages of a good book.
Pump the brakes. Transitions can add stress to our days without us even knowing. Do you find that your mind is still at work when you come home? Or that you're thinking about your to-do list while picking your kids up from school? Our minds work best when they are focused on one thing at a time, so give yourself an extra thirty seconds to really stop doing one task before you start the next. This can be as simple as a deep breath and a count to five. When your mind starts wandering to what you just left, take another deep breath and bring it back to the here and now.
Celebrate your day. It is human nature to focus on the negative — the deadline you missed, the pile of laundry undone, the note that never got signed for school. Yet every day you've done so many things right that you never acknowledge. At the end of your day, take a moment or two to list all of the things you accomplished that day. You can write them down, say them out loud, or simply think about them. Train your brain to notice and celebrate yourself. Sometimes these will be small: kept everyone alive, fed all of the humans and animals in my house. Celebrate it all!
These may seem like really simple, small actions to take. And they are, but they are also very powerful. These are exercises in joy, patience, forgiveness, and connection with self. We all crave these things, but we may not know how to get them. The simple answer is: do a little bit every day.
"We are what we repeatedly do."
Aristotle said that and it's true. You can make big changes by introducing or breaking small habits. As moms it can be so hard to step back and see all that we are doing right, all the ways in which we could be nicer to ourselves, and how much grace we need and deserve.
What are your favorite simple self-care tips? Let me know in the comments!
“We are what we repeatedly do.”
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
My daughter looks like my mother. It's uncanny. She looks like me too, in the way that I look like my mom.
But mostly she has my attitude, my facial expressions. It isn't so much like watching myself grow up again — she acts like me NOW. There's a tiny 37-year-old woman waddling around my house who is completely over all your nonsense.
There is so much of me in her that it is always jarring when someone assumes that I'm not her mother. Which happens pretty regularly, and almost always in the same place.
I became a regular at Whole Foods after my daughter was diagnosed with milk-soy protein intolerance (MSPI). Trying to cut out all soy and dairy from your diet can be tricky, but I knew I'd find what I needed there. And I did.
She's always been a beautiful baby, and more than a bit of a flirt, so I was prepared to have to stop and talk to nearly every single person in the store. What I wasn't prepared for were the type of comments I would get. Every single time I took her with me to the store, someone assumed I wasn't her mother. EVERY TIME. I started typing them out in text messages to myself and keeping them. Eventually I stopped taking her with me. I would only go at night or when I could get childcare during the day.
We stopped breastfeeding at around 7 months, she grew out of the MSPI at around 13 months and we stopped going. I never forgot the text messages sitting in my phone, but I moved on. Then last week, we ran in quickly for a spice I needed. And it happened again.
I stood there staring at this woman. She looked like so many girls I went to high school and college with. She looked like the women you see on Facebook crying because someone called them racist. She looked like she should have been wearing a safety pin and a pink knitted cap. I turned, put my saffron back on a rack with some chips, and walked out of the store.
I never forgot, but I moved on.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I usually love the fall and winter months. I love the cooler weather, the rain and chill. I love sweaters, boots, and blankets. I love holidays and cooking big meals for my family. This year has been different. This year fall has knocked me down, hard, and winter seems intent on kicking me. Everything was moving too quickly for me to catch up. What I really needed was a way to slow down the world.
What do you do when life gets harder than you thought possible? When nightmares, sleepless nights, bad health, and money worries crowd in to choke out all of the peace and light — how do you cope?
I decided to hit the pause button on my online life and step away. I didn't make any new commitments, I scaled back on my social obligations, and I gave my introverted heart exactly what it needed — quiet.
Amazing things have come into this quiet.
I have accepted a position with an organization I love and respect. We are going to do big things for moms and kids together.
I discovered a few things about myself — some that I enjoy and some that I'm not proud of. But I know myself better now.
I was able to refocus on a project that I have kept on the back burner for far too long. "How To Create A Birth Plan That WORKS" will launch just after the New Year, and I am so proud of it!
So what does this mean for you? How can you apply these ideas in your life and with your family right now?
First, you have to remember that YOU are in charge of your life. You can say no, you can step back, you can pare down.
Second, not everyone will need the same thing. Maybe once you do slow everything down you realize that you're bored, or lonely. Then you choose to commit to things that will fill you instead of draining you.
Third, you do not need to explain yourself to anyone. You don't need an excuse to say no, you don't need to lie to get out of something.
Last, and most importantly, remember that the relationship you have with yourself is the only one you cannot leave and is the only one you will have your whole life. You owe it to yourself to make it a good one.
Amazing things can happen in the quiet.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Sweetest Heart, today is your first birthday. Right now you're in your crib, chattering away at me because nap times mean nothing to you. You rule the world with a chubby fist and absolutely everyone knows it.
Thank you for being my baby. I can't begin to explain the way I love you — there are no words for that. All day I've been thinking about your birth and your birth day. How was it a year ago when it feels like yesterday and like last century? Time and sleep deprivation can play tricks on you.
There wasn't a rush of love, my world didn't shift — it wasn't like you've read in books or seen on TV. There was a feeling that you had always been with me and of course now you were in my arms because where else could you possibly belong? We have belonged together from the beginning.
You latched on right away and seemed to need to be held as much as I needed to hold you. Eventually we kicked Daddy out of bed and it was our cuddle space. You'd wake up in the middle of the night to nurse and I'd sort of wake up too. We would both drift off as I fed you. It was so much like still being pregnant with you.
Slowly over this year you have grown up and away from me. We are two from one. Sometimes I want to snatch all of the time back, rewind the clock back to that hospital bed where all I had to do was hold you and marvel at your perfection. But I can't wait to see what happens tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
Somehow, I thought that it would be easier this second time. I thought that not getting sick with postpartum depression or anxiety meant that your babyhood would be a breeze. As with many, many other things — I was so wrong. You got my nose, my chin, my temper, my stubbornness, and my volume. You did not get my intense and abiding love of sleep. It's been more than a year since I slept well — you owe me, kiddo!
This has been so hard to write — the words and feelings are tripping over each other and snarling my fingers up on the keyboard. How do I explain how intensely wanted you were when you were just a speck on a screen? How do I apologize for expecting your birth and life to heal me? How do I describe the feeling of making you laugh, hearing you say "Mama", or having you walk over to me and crawl into my lap and sigh?
The things I want for you are immense. I am so greedy on your behalf. The way I love you has changed me and made me more than I was before. There are so many things I am scared of, but so many risks that I am going to take because I want to become the person you deserve to have as a mom.
You amaze me every day. I could hold you forever.
Please stop biting me.
All my heart,
Mama
We belonged together from the beginning.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I had so many risk factors for postpartum depression that it would have been a miracle if I hadn't gotten sick. The problem is that no one ever told me that. I was never screened for a maternal mental illness and I suffered because of it. Now I want to make sure that every medical professional screens every mom every time they can.
The first time I met my OB, I cried. Everything in my life was up in the air — new living situation, new boyfriend, going back to college, new job, and now an unplanned pregnancy.
I cried every time she saw me throughout that pregnancy. Sometimes I cried in her office. Sometimes I cried just before or after my appointment.
When I told her that I couldn't handle this and wouldn't be any good at being a mom, she said it was normal to be scared, and that my worries meant I'd be an excellent mother. It helped in the moment but did nothing to quell the panic that returned in the middle of the night.
I told her that I was crying, nervous, and scared all the time, and I asked her if it was just hormones. I asked her if that was normal. She reassured me that it was.
My blood pressure was rising, I was eating all of my feelings and fears, and gaining weight quickly. She had me watch my salt intake, push fluids, and focus on eating better.
If she had asked, I would have told her that I cried every day.
That I panicked almost every night.
I talked to my belly and begged my baby to love me and apologized for being a horrible mother each night while I tossed and turned and tried to sleep.
I fantasized about having the baby and sneaking out of the hospital and just running away. His father and our families would take much better care of him than I ever could.
No one screened me using the Edinburgh Screening Tool, the ten questions that could save the lives of mothers and babies every day. No one told me the risk factors for perinatal mood and anxiety disorders. I raised a red flag by telling the truth on my medical history form about my previous battle with depression and still, no one asked me.
My mother told me not to get upset because it wasn't good for the baby. He would feel whatever I felt so it was my responsibility to make sure I stayed calm and happy at all times.
My sisters told me I was getting too fat.
My dad told me it was just hormones.
No one told me that 1 in 5 pregnant and postpartum women deal with depression or a maternal mental illness. No one told me that I didn't have to feel miserable and fight to smile each day. No one told me that it might not be 'just hormones'. I assumed that I was a terrible person because I hated being pregnant. I assumed I had failed at motherhood before it ever really began.
Looking back now, it's obvious that I had depression and anxiety while I was pregnant. Would I have fallen so deep so fast down the rabbit hole of postpartum depression, anxiety, and PTSD if I had been screened and treated appropriately during my pregnancy? I will never know the answer to that question.
What I do know for certain is there is no reason for us not to screen #EveryMomEveryTime. Screen her at OB appointments, screen her when she's interviewing pediatricians, screen her at birth classes, screen her at hospital tours, screen her when she checks in at the hospital, screen her before she leaves the hospital, screen her at follow-up appointments, screen her at pediatrician appointments. If we want to end the stigma associated with these diseases and save the lives of mothers and babies we have to ask them the questions and tell them the risk factors.
We have to ask the questions.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I have always struggled with gratitude. Or rather, I have always struggled with expressing gratitude in ways that others deemed appropriate. Ever since I was diagnosed with postpartum depression, anxiety, and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), people have talked to me about gratitude a lot. As I study, practice, and teach about self-care, the subject comes up even more. Just yesterday it came up again — this time in the form of a question: When you look back on your experience with mental illness, what do you think about depression and gratitude?
Answers came pouring in from women who had revelations about themselves, their relationships, their purpose. Women had found strength they never knew existed or had realized there were underlying issues they had been ignoring. None of these women were excited to have suffered with/be suffering from a mental illness, but all of them had found something about them that was stronger, better, more now.
No attitude of gratitude here. I’m still pissed.
For a long time I was lost. I am the stereotypical “Gifted and Talented” kid who aced all the tests without studying and flew through school too easily. When things got hard, I didn't know how to stick. Add in a bout of depression and anxiety in my early 20s and I was just lost.
In my late twenties I moved about 400 miles away from home. Close enough to drive, but far enough that I had to fix my life myself. I met my best friend, worked some crappy jobs, and dated some truly horrible men. Slowly I began to figure myself out, to find out who I was, what I wanted, and how hard I was willing to work for it.
I came back home with a plan, and a passion. I was going back to school and I was going to help small business owners build a social media presence online. It was a perfect fit for my personality and would leave time for my passion — political advocacy on behalf of women and children.
My life was coming together. I was doing really well in my classes, I had a job that paid the bills, and I met a great guy. I could see my future laid out. The work, the goals, the family, and one day, children. I finally had faith not just in my intelligence, but in my willpower, work ethic, and in my strength.
Then my son was born and I was thrust into hell. I fought, climbed, slipped, was carried, and finally walked out of that hell with my head held high. But is there anything from that experience I'm grateful for?
I learned more about myself, my relationships, and my family. Some of those lessons were good, a lot of them were horrible. Yes, there are parts of me that are stronger. There are parts that are more fragile. My focus has shifted from empowering small business owners to empowering mothers and mothers-to-be. My advocacy for women and children has narrowed in focus to maternal mental illness. I have amazing friends, and am part of a community of advocates who work every day to save the lives of mamas. These women are fantastic. I am grateful that they are in my life.
But.
Now I will never know how that other life would have turned out. What work, friends, or family I might have had if we had come home from the hospital with Buddy and the world hadn't fallen apart. It isn't something I've ever considered until writing this — where would my business be? Would Adam and I be married already? Would I be working on a political campaign this year?
It doesn't do any good to dwell on the past, and I haven't. I move forward with love — for myself, my family, my friends, and all of the mamas who are out there suffering. I will never, ever stop fighting for moms. But I'm not grateful for my mental illness. I'm not any better because of it. I'm just different. And I'm OK with that.
“I’m not any better because of it. I’m just different.”
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
You want to get out of the house. No, you need to get out of the house.
Maybe it's for a date night, quiet time alone, girls’ night out, or a family vacation. But every time you try to get out of the house for some self-care, you wind up frustrated, stressed out, and pissed off! Why? Because you're the one doing all the work and dealing with all of the last-minute challenges and frustrations while everyone else simply shows up and has fun.
It doesn't have to be like this.
Those who fail to plan are planning to fail. I don't know who said it originally, but I do know that my dad said it to me enough that I cannot hear it in anything other than his voice. Maybe that's why I love lists so much. Nothing is satisfying in quite the same way as crossing an item off of a list. Lists and deadlines are the basis and the key to this plan. Are you ready?
This system works when you get to choose a date (girls’ night out, date night) and when you don't (business trip, weddings, family reunions). In any case you want to have as much planning time as possible, I suggest at least one month in advance.
The Meta-List (ML) is simply a list of all the lists you will make. This is an overview of everything that needs to get done before you can leave the house stress-free.
For example: Say Dork Dad and I want to go to dinner and a movie and have the house to ourselves, that Meta-List might look like this:
Budget, Childcare, Food, House, Son, Daughter, Date
Once I've made the ML, I generally check in with Dork Dad to see if there's anything I've forgotten. We have two young children and are almost always working through some form of sleep deprivation, so double-checking is necessary.
As for what, exactly, should be on each Sublist — well, that's up to you. I get detailed. I get very, very detailed.
For example, when I create the list for packing my kids’ clothing, I write down the exact shirt, shorts, color of socks, pair of underwear, etc. That is what works for me. You can write, "clothes for kids" or you can write, "3 shirts, 3 shorts, 3 socks.” You can get super detailed on one Sublist and be really general on another. At this point the rules are up to you.
I cannot stress enough how important deadlines are to this process. Doing a few things each week is simple, but if you try pulling everything together the day of, frustration and overwhelm will take over.
Do not, I repeat, DO NOT attempt to complete these lists by yourself (unless you live alone or are the only person over the age of five in your house).
Children can pack for themselves with supervision. Teens can pack for themselves and take responsibility for a Sublist. If there are two adults in the house, the list should be split very nearly evenly. This works with roommates, lovers, spouses — anyone.
*Disclaimer: I am horrible at this. You may have guessed by now I like control. In the beginning, I gave Dork Dad one Sublist to handle. Things were better, but I was still tired and a little annoyed by the time we left for our date/trip/etc. Things didn't really change until we started sitting down together after the Sublists were complete and I allowed him to claim half of them.
Decide who will do what. How will you check things off? Once everything on a list is checked off, the header gets checked off on the Meta-List. Your goal is for the ML to be totally checked off by 48 hours BEFORE the date night or family vacation, etc.
I like having control of the details. I like being able to see our progress. Having the lists, being able to check things against the list as many times as I need to — that helps me calm my anxiety. Working on this together helps me to not feel so alone in the planning and parenting part.
We put all of our deadlines on our Google Calendar because we are both constantly on our phones and computers, but you could put this on a regular old calendar on your wall, or write it on a piece of paper. When the deadlines come up we make sure our tasks are done and cross them off of the calendar. If they aren’t and we need help, we ask for it.
Planning ahead leaves plenty of time for things to blow up, for me to freak out about it, calm down, ask for help, fix the problem, and move on. That process can take a while, so I build in the time.
We do some version of this for his business trips, my business trips, our date nights, family trips, and vacations. Giving ourselves as much time as possible to plan means less overwhelm. Less overwhelm means a happier family. Who doesn't want that?
Say it with me now: Lists are your friend.
Yesterday's post on self care is doing really well. I'm getting emails, tweets, and messages from moms applauding my decision to take time off. A lot of them say that they wish they could do what I did. That makes me pause — mostly because it is something I would have said just a few weeks ago. The truth is, this was an emergency decision. This was not a break or a vacation, but a self-care intervention. Yes, I came home with energy and purpose, but there was a cost.
1. MOTHERHOOD MARTYRDOM
I can't show off my wounds anymore. I'm not the person in my house who has had the least sleep. I'm no longer the one who can recite the last six nap times of each kid, how long they were, and what (or whether) they ate beforehand. The daily pattern of our lives slipped through my fingers while I was away. Also, Adam dealt with two kids by himself for six nights. No one got hurt, no one broke anything, everyone is not just alive, but thriving. The least they could have done was have a minor flood...
2. THE MYTH OF MOMMY GLUE
It's possible that what was holding our family together was not me juggling every possible ball alone. That should be a relief, right? Right? But if I'm not essential, if the world will continue to spin and my family can thrive without me — what is the point?
3. THE BELIEF THAT I ESCAPED POSTPARTUM DEPRESSION/ANXIETY THIS TIME
It has been the central story of this pregnancy — that the Little Miss healed the broken mommy. I never realized how tight I was holding to that. Even as I accepted that the dosage of my medication needed to be raised, even as I stayed in therapy, even as each week got more and more difficult. The cost of self-care? A hard look in the mirror. I was healed. I was healthy. That HAD to be true.
4. THE BRAND I'M BUILDING
Would women still want me to coach them through their pregnancy and postpartum period if they knew that I had gotten sick (not just once, but TWICE)? Obviously, moms would only want someone picture perfect to walk this road with them. They would not want someone who has actually been there and may have been scarred by the experience.
5. OUR BUDGET
I went to a place three hours away because that was where we found a deal on a place that we could (almost) afford and where I could feel safe. I took Ramen with me, y'all. Still, we will be paying for this for a while.
6. MY PRIDE
I had to ask for help. I had to tell people who I work with and who depend on me that I was not going to be able to fulfill an obligation, to come through on a promise made. With most of my business contacts, I framed it as a family emergency. With my closest friends, I laid myself bare and asked for support, for grace. Every single person came through for me. That was (and is) humbling and heartwarming.
7. ONE WEEK OF THEIR LIVES
Boogie doesn't like to be rocked in the same way she did when I left. She also has two more teeth and has started cruising the living room. She babbles three more syllables, has more hair, and weighs at least 150 more lbs.
Buddy turned 40 while I was gone. His three-nager has kicked into high gear and with it have come all sorts of new sayings and attitudes.
It has been hard to see the changes in them and to know that I'll never get this time back. And then I remind myself that it was six days out of a lifetime.
So what did I really lose? What did I really have to let go of in order to choose myself? Not much. I let go of things that were holding me back, ideas that were keeping me boxed in, and situations I thought I was controlling which were actually controlling me.
I had an idea — I'm going to start taking my own advice. The most important person in my life from now on is me. I'm the one I have to take care of first. Yes, it will make me a better mother, a better partner, a better peer supporter and coach. That's not why I'm doing it.
I'm doing it for me. Because I am important to me. I almost lost me and I realized that I don't ever want to lose me. To everyone who has called, messaged, and checked in on me I have two things to say. First, thank you. I feel your love and support. Second, you can do this too. You are important and all of the things that you have to lose? They aren't much.
I’m going to start taking my own advice.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020. I
I firmly believe that self-care can save your life. I've been called a self-care guru, a self-care coach, and I call myself a self-care evangelist. So how did I stray so far from the path that I almost lost myself completely?
After my first child was born, I fought the demons of postpartum depression and anxiety. With the help of therapy, medication, and peer support I won that battle. As a mother living with PTSD from a traumatic birth, I turned to self-care for mental health maintenance. I read, I learned, I found mentors, and created a plan that worked for me.
Then I got pregnant again.
Suddenly everything was focused on getting sick again. It became a personal mission not to. I was so focused on what would happen after my daughter was born, that I started neglecting the things that were already keeping me healthy.
Yes, it started that long ago. It just took me until now to admit it.
This website has been a dream of mine for a while now, and soon I will be launching my pregnancy and postpartum coaching business. It's been a painful juggling act: two children, a relationship, a 'real job', blogging, building a new brand from the ground up.
Guess who got lost in that equation? It didn't happen all at once. Self-care, like so many other things in our lives, is a series of choices that turns into a habit. I stopped choosing me. Slowly, but surely I began to choose everyone else over myself and I began to fade away.
Fading may be too passive a word. It hurt. The rage started creeping back. My temper got shorter, fatigue became a constant companion, and it seemed like every choice I made was between two evils. There was very little in my life that I actually WANTED in my life. Instead it had become full of 'must' and 'should', guilt and running — running — running. I thought if I could save one more mom, help one more woman, be a shoulder for one more friend, fight one more battle — surely the clouds would part and I would stop feeling like this.
That is not the way this works.
This summer has been the hardest of my life. Unequivocally the worst summer in my 26 *cough 37 cough* years. Beyond simply being awake and a Black mother at the same time I have been attacked online and in person. I do not feel safe in my hometown, my state, or my country.
This is, I know, a right of passage for a Black woman. Welcome to the club. They call us strong so that they can justify everything they do to us. I'm not naive.
Self-care works when it is a regular practice. It works best when you take time every day for yourself, when you place yourself at the center of your life unflinchingly and claim your space. I know that. I preach that. But there's a reason that doctors make the worst patients and the preacher's kids are always wild.
A few weeks ago, I spoke with my therapist about how I felt like I was hanging on to my life by my fingertips. I was running on empty, but constantly having to find more to give. As a mother, as a business owner, as a daughter, as a friend... I kept telling Dork Dad, "I have nothing left, I'm just so tired", but then I would go run my support group or hop online to try to comfort a friend.
This is not sustainable.
Every time I walked by the front door of my house, I wanted to run away. Every time I got into the car, I wanted to just keep driving. After a family vacation that left me more exhausted at the end than I had been at the beginning, I had reached my breaking point.
Sobbing in my therapist's office, I told her that I knew that something had to change. Something radical had to be done. That was the first step, the first thing I had done truly and only for me. It was how I found myself on the road back to self-care.
I'm typing this at a coffee shop on my way home. I've been gone for a week. I drove about three hours away and stayed in a hotel room. I brought sewing, my comics, my coloring books, and my Nook with me. I brought my bathing suit and enough cash to take myself to the movies one day.
Then I slept. For a week.
I sewed for a few minutes, and colored a bit. I did read the comics, but mostly I slept and watched Netflix. I didn't watch the news. I didn't work on my business. I didn't call to get updates on the kids. I didn't get sucked into fights on Facebook.
I got out of bed only to make food, take baths or look out of the window every once in a while. My mind emptied and I let it. At first it felt unnatural and uncomfortable. What kind of mother abandons her children that way? What kind of Black woman gets broken by racist assholes? How much more of a wimp could I possibly be?
The less I did, the better I felt. I went through about a gallon of water a day and started sleeping better, feeling better when I woke.
I sang all the way home. Car dancing, rock star impersonating, taking up space, and ROCKING OUT singing. People who passed me on the highway smiled.
As I sang, some things became clear to me.
I am filled with purpose and energy right now. I have plans and a clarity that has been missing for so long. My words are back. I am back. And this time I'm not going anywhere.
This time, I’m not going anywhere.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Whoever came up with the term baby-friendly hospitals is very, very good at their job. It sounds good. Why wouldn't we want a hospital to be baby-friendly? What could possibly go wrong?
As we have seen in the years since this initiative came to the US — many, many things could go wrong, and most of them are to the detriment of the mother.
Here are the ten steps listed in the World Health Organization Baby Friendly Initiative:
I asked some birth professionals and moms about how the initiative is actually being implemented and got very impassioned responses from mamas across the country.
The World Health Organization made steps ONE and TWO — creating a policy on breastfeeding that the ENTIRE staff knows and regularly reviews and that the entire health care staff CAN TEACH to new moms. And yet, the steps most commonly implemented first are: get rid of the nursery and throw out the pacifiers. Steps SEVEN and TEN. Moms have screaming, hungry babies; staff isn't properly trained to help them feed their babies from the breast. Yes, they can give their babies formula. No, they cannot rest alone, because there is no nursery. The bond that is supposed to be forming between mother and baby, strengthened by rooming in, is now weakened by rooming in. The more stressed they become, the more difficult it is to initiate feeding. But the nurses continue to arrive, every two hours, to stare at the new mom and her new baby, as they try again. I knew, when I left the hospital, that I would go to a practice devoted entirely to breastfeeding, and I knew that its staff was devoted to helping my baby and me stay calm and keep perspective. We would not be evaluated in ounces or time charts. — Anne-Marie Lindsey, HBCE
I left the hospital feeling completely unsupported. There were no nightly checks on us (me or her). None of my concerns were addressed. My well-being was ignored. My mental health was ignored. I was asked five or six times what my birth control plan was and if I wanted pain medicine but nothing regarding how I was really doing. I asked for a lactation consultant that never came. Cracked and bleeding nipples after less than 24 hours of nursing were dismissed with no ideas on how to heal them or to keep it from happening again. When I asked for help, I got brief assistance and then was completely left alone — no follow-up. — Ashley, mom
My experience is actually more a statement on my local hospital NOT following baby-friendly protocol, even though it's a designated "baby-friendly hospital." My second kiddo hit the magic number of losing 10% of her birth weight, and the night nurse (at 2 frickin' AM!) started talking to me about supplementing with formula. When I voiced my opposition to this, she and baby's pediatrician came in later that morning and basically made me feel like a horrible person for not agreeing with them. I was so glad when my day nurse came back on shift and suggested they find me a pump! My kiddo will be 4 in November, and I still feel angry at them and at myself for giving any formula to her. — Katherine, mom
My experience at a baby friendly hospital left me and my husband feeling very angry and isolated as we let staff know of our preferences and received little support. I had chosen not to breastfeed long before delivery and was confident in my decision. I let my nurses know as soon as I could that I wanted formula and didn't want to discuss breastfeeding — my mind was set. After my son's birth we had to wait close to half an hour for formula to be brought. This trend continued at every feeding; I'd be left waiting — ringing the call button for formula as I'd been told to. Eventually, a nurse would quickly bring me formula and move onto the next room. At every shift change the topic of my decision not to breastfeed came up. Nurses would ask "can you tell me why?" Or "what influenced your decision?" I even had one nurse tell me "well we expect that in second time moms, but most first time moms at least want to try". — Shannon, mom
The communication is the key, I feel, because I don't believe nurses want to PUSH anything. I think sometimes their attempts to educate are misinterpreted, or lacking in some way. Nurses don't get bonus points for convincing a mom to breastfeed. But, they are required to ask, and make sure mom has the info. All they NEED to say is "do you plan to breastfeed?... Has anyone talked to you about the benefits?" If mom says "yes." Then, "ok. That's great." If mom says "No..." they can offer some info. Moms should NOT feel pressured, but it's difficult, because with all the "Mommy wars" stuff, we almost always feel like we are being judged for our choices (or non-choices) even if we're not. — Sarah, mom
The hospital where I delivered my first kiddo wasn't designated "baby friendly," but here's my experience regarding nurseries: I never once thought I would be the kind of parent who would send their newborn to the nursery. Then I went into labor in the evening (so my husband and I had already been awake all day), and baby wasn't born for another 34 hours — which includes 6 hours of pushing and then a cesarean. I was beyond the point of exhaustion and had very little interest in my baby. The moment they wheeled me into my room, I asked them to take her to the nursery so my husband and I could rest. An hour or so later, he had to drive home in a blizzard because my brother-in-law had the wrong key and couldn't get into our house to feed our cats — definitely something he wouldn't have been able to do had baby not gone to nursery, and I definitely would not have been able to take of baby on my own during that time without a rest first either. — Katherine, mom
While I was pregnant with my first baby, a friend of mine who is a nurse gave me some advice. She said to find the oldest nurse on my floor, watch everything she does, and take all of her advice. For me that was Ann. She wasn't my nurse, she was the baby's nurse — but she was the first person who asked how I was feeling and not just what my pain level was. She is the one who told me that I could ask them to take him to the nursery at night and bring him in only to feed. I had no idea that was an option. After a traumatic birth, including an emergency C-section, I had mounting anxiety. I also had a lot of family in the room all day long. Night was the only time I could rest, but I spent all night the first two nights staring at him to be sure he was still breathing. Ann saw a woman recovering from major abdominal surgery who hadn't slept in days. She offered me support. When I looked at her with tears in my eyes and said, " You can do that? Really?" She told me something that I would hold on to for years — "If you are okay, then he will be okay. So let's get you better." — Graeme, mom
Hospitals across the country are closing down their well baby nurseries. In the meantime, the rates of C-section are holding steady. Single mothers, women with partners who work nights, women with partners who need to stay home to take care of other children, SO MANY WOMEN are being put in a position where the only time they will have to be cared for and supported while they make this serious transition is being stripped away.
Even implemented in the most gentle way possible, those guidelines require an exhausted woman who needs help and support to be questioned and lectured to. How 'baby friendly' is a traumatized mother?
There's also some debate over whether any of this is truly necessary. The WHOBFI is a global initiative and it seems to be working well in many countries. It is saving the lives of babies around the world and that is an amazing thing. Here in the US it seems to have been corrupted by rules and marketing and money — and it may not actually scientifically sound. There's even some evidence that it actually may not be so baby-friendly after all.
I had a radical idea. What if instead of focusing on checklists and grant money and percentages — we focused on creating holistic plans, training and supporting nurses so that they can educate and support moms, and respecting the choices of mothers. This simply isn't working for a lot of mothers. We must do better.
What about moms?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
There are so many things we don't talk about when it comes to motherhood. The relationship between breastfeeding and sexual abuse or trauma is a pretty taboo subject. It's not something you bring up on a playdate in the park while you're sipping lattes.
A history of childhood trauma involving sexual abuse is a risk factor for a perinatal mood and anxiety disorder (PMAD). It is one of the many risk factors I had, but didn't know raised my odds of getting sick after my son was born.
I fought for a breastfeeding relationship with my son but eventually had to accept that it wasn't going to work for us. There were so many reasons why it didn't work — and I was determined to learn from them and change them when I became pregnant again. This involved some really rough sessions with my therapist bringing up things from decades ago.
Then Boogie Baby was born, and she did her cute little froggy crawl up to my breast and latched right on. It wasn't always perfect. I had my share of sore, cracked nipples and she ended up needing me to be on a very restrictive diet. To me it was worth it to finally have the relationship I had always wanted.
A few weeks ago that all changed.
If you don't know what cluster feedings are, or if you haven't experienced one as a nursing mom, I am pretty jealous. Boogie hit a growth spurt and the cluster feedings began. One night she nursed for two hours straight. It was the middle of the night, the house was quiet all around us. It was the time when I usually like nursing best, because I feel like we are the only two people awake in the whole world. That night was different. She just wouldn't stop. Every time I tried to ease her off she screamed angrily.
Twenty minutes.
Then thirty.
Forty-five.
Then an hour.
At an hour and a half I felt the panic attack begin. I started grounding myself, counting my breaths.
By the time we hit two hours, I was barely holding on. More than anything I felt that I had lost ownership over my body. I felt violated. "This is what rape feels like," I thought. Looking back now, that was the moment. That was the end of our breastfeeding relationship. For as much as I love my daughter and valued our breastfeeding time I never, ever wanted to feel that way about her again.
Eventually she fell asleep. Some time later I did too. The next morning I talked to Adam about what had happened, and at my next session I talked to my therapist about it. I pumped for a while and then we totally weaned. There have been no flashbacks to the feelings of violation, disgust, and panic that overwhelmed me.
I've already gotten a few dirty looks from people when I start shaking up a bottle of formula in public. I got dirty looks when I was breastfeeding too. There is no way to win the mommy wars, so I stay out of them. But if anyone ever asked me why I was feeding my baby formula I would answer them, "I had a triggering event involving childhood sexual trauma and made the decision to wean her to formula."
We don't talk about the effect that sexual abuse, trauma, or rape can have on the breastfeeding relationship. We should talk about it. We can't solve problems by hiding them. We can't support mamas through silence. We need to talk about this with lactation consultants, with breastfeeding support group leaders, with pediatricians, and we definitely need to talk about this with mamas.
We need to talk about it.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I'm getting really tired of the binary.
It rarely ever applies. There are almost always shades of grey. Somehow when it comes to parenting in general, and breastfeeding in particular, it seems as if the entire world has chosen sides, drawn a line in the sand, and booby trapped it (pun intended). I've had a special relationship with breastfeeding. Not special in the staring-into-the-soul-of-my-newborn-while-he-drinks-from-my-heart kind of way. Special in the "it's complicated" kind of way.
When my son was born, I was thrown headlong into a battle with postpartum depression (PPD) and anxiety (PPA) and PTSD. I also realized that despite taking the breastfeeding classes at my hospital and having a lactation consultant come by the room before we went home, I had no idea what I was doing. It hurt. It hurt to the point of revulsion and sobbing on my part. I had an oversupply, I was always engorged, I was healing from a C-section and surrounded by people, not getting enough rest, and I was slowly losing my mind.
Every single time I tried to feed him everything inside me screamed NO. It was something that my body, mind, and heart did NOT want to do. I was convinced that I was the worst mother in the world. I hid all of those feelings and only told my boyfriend "it hurts me." He had no idea that I meant that the act of feeding our son was hurting me on so many levels.
So why didn't I stop? Why didn't I tell someone how bad it was? Why didn't I ask for more help? Well, it's complicated. Part of it is that I was developing a mental illness and so wasn't really able to advocate for myself. The other part is that everything I heard and read everywhere I looked said breastfeeding was natural and normal and the absolute best thing that I could do for my child. This is what I had been made for, this is what hundreds of millions of years of evolution had created my breasts for. This is the point of being a mother.
Breast is best.
Except when it's not.
The truth is that I didn't derive comfort or peace from holding my son in my arms as an infant. I did it. I held him, and cuddled him, and kissed his chubby cheeks. I lavished him with affection, but I didn't feel it. It drained me, this act that I was putting on for everybody. It can be damn hard to fake it till you make it.
One night I put him to the breast and the pain — physical and mental — was just too much. I tried a different latch and it felt physically better, but emotionally I just wanted him off of me. The shame/pain cocktail was too much and I broke down sobbing. Adam took the baby from me and told me to stop. He didn't know what was wrong, but he knew this wasn't right. We got out the pump. About two months later we switched to formula. I felt tremendously guilty. I had failed at one of the essential tasks of motherhood.
I felt that way right up until I had my daughter nearly three years later. Boogie Baby is a breastfeeding machine. If I'd let her nurse all day and night, she would do it. She nurses when she's hungry, when she's teething, when she needs comfort, when she's sleepy. She rivals her father for fixation on my chest.
It doesn't hurt. Not physically (unless she bites) or emotionally. Sometimes I talk to her, sometimes we do the staring-into-each-other's-eyes thing. Sometimes I'm asleep. Mostly I'm writing something in my head or working through a problem. It isn't some magical thing. It isn't all that beautiful (Adam disagrees, but he can't be trusted to be unbiased about my boobs). I'm simply feeding my kid in the way that works best for us. She's six months old and we're starting to give her purees and let her taste sauces and soups. She doesn't seem interested in anything that hasn't been in my bra first, but we'll get there.
This has been a bit rambling, but I do have a point. Here it is: The words we use matter. When you "normalize" breastfeeding, you make formula feeding abnormal. When you say "breast is best," you make formula the worst. At this point it isn't really about intention — it's about effect. How about we normalize feeding? Feeding our babies is normal, starving a baby is abnormal. Each mother/baby dad is unique and will need a plan that works for them.
We need to see more moms nursing in public so it doesn't seem strange. We need to see moms nursing using different holds so that women know that there is no "right way" and there are plenty of options. We need more lactation consultants in hospitals and communities, especially communities of color, so that there is support for every mom who wants to breastfeed.
We need training for every nurse and doctor who will interact with a new mom on the full range of maternal mental illnesses: postpartum depression, postpartum anxiety, postpartum OCD, postpartum PTSD, and postpartum psychosis. They also need to be trained to spot D-MER (Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex) and offer support.
We need to make sure breast pumps are covered by all insurance, that women know this, and women are taught how to use breast pumps before they leave the hospital.
We need to be sure that we aren't shaming moms who need to, or choose to, feed their babies formula. We need to make sure that formula is affordable to all moms. We need specialty formulas (goat's milk, sheep's milk, vegan, etc.) to be more widely available so that moms have choices that fit the dietary needs of their babies.
How about we normalize supporting all moms? How about we normalize giving moms information and trusting them? How about we normalize maternal mental health screening so that we can support the nearly one million moms who will suffer this year?
How about we normalize feeding?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Today is my birthday, so it seems only fitting that today is the very first day The Postpartum Mama "goes live." Birthdays have always been a big deal in my family. You get to do what you want and go where you want and eat what you want. For a control freak person who enjoys a modicum of control, it's pretty much the perfect day. Birthdays are great, they are awesome. Birth, on the other hand, is GREAT and AWESOME. It is huge and awe-inspiring and hard and life changing and scarring and devastating. Or at least it has been for me. The births of my children — the differences and the similarities — are what led me down the path to creating this site. The birth of this site has been a whole journey in and of itself.
I am stepping out on faith. I have faith that my words are needed, that there are mamas out there who need to hear that they aren't alone. I have faith that there are people waiting right now who want to become more themselves and who want to explore self-care with me. I have faith my advocacy for mental health in the Black community comes at a time when it is needed. I have faith.
And yet...
In creating this site I have been pushed past my limits, exhausted, exhilarated, excited, and terrified. I have no idea how to do something this big, even though I have plenty of guidance and help. In so, so many ways this has been just like childbirth for me (no stitches this time though). So now I introduce the world to my baby — The Postpartum Mama. Please take a look around, check out the YouTube Channel and our Facebook group. I can promise you one thing — this will NOT be boring.
And now that you've met the baby, I have to say a bit about the dad. Just like with our actual children, I could not have made this without him (what? that was funny!). This man, y'all — I just love him. Look up “partner” in the dictionary and you'll find his picture. Whatever I've needed while trying to bring this dream of mine into the world — he has figured out a way to help me get it. He's made time, money, support, food, and beer just appear out of thin air sometimes when I needed them most. He sees what this means to me and he's on board. HE SEES ME. That is big.
Happy Birthday to me. Happy Day One to TPM. THANK YOU Adam. Buckle up, kiddos, and let's go!
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020. I
I’m here for moms.
I’m here for the teen mom who is told her life is over.
I'm here for the older mom told she can't do this.
I'm here for the mom who's been trying to conceive for SO LONG.
I'm here for the single mom holding it all together somehow.
I’m here for the Black moms terrified for their children.
I’m here for the Latinx moms and Hispanic moms battling citizenship assumptions.
I’m here for the Asian moms stuck in the model-minority box.
I’m here for the Native moms, so long ignored.
I’m here for the lesbian moms, transgender moms, and moms who identify as male who can’t know how this world will treat their children.
I’m here for the depressed mom and the anxious mom and the OCD mom with intrusive thoughts.
I’m here for the mom with PTSD.
I’m here for the mom who survived psychosis.
I’m here for the mom who’s children are gone.
I’m here for the mom in jail.
I’m here for the mom trying to make SNAP last a whole month.
I’m here for the alcoholic mom.
I’m here for the addicted mom.
I’m here for the mom who never sees themself on the posters or the commercials, the mom who thinks no one will amplify their voice.
I will listen and learn.
I will offer my help and my space.
I will raise you up.
I will stand at the intersection of all that I am and do my best to see you standing at the intersection of all that you are.
When I fall short I will learn and I will do better.
You are not alone.
You never were alone.
Do you hear me?
YOU WERE NEVER ALONE.
You are not alone.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I'm supposed to be working right now, adding columns of numbers to turn in to the IRS so my clients can write checks or receive them. Both kiddos are asleep at the same time and I've showered for the first time in days and I should really be doing math, but I can't because it's happening again.
The last time this blew up, I was in the depths of postpartum depression (PPD) and anxiety. I was dealing with a traumatic birth and undiagnosed PTSD. Every time I tried to breastfeed my son, my entire body screamed NO. There was nothing in me that wanted to do it. At all. The physical pain was excruciating and the mental pain... I cannot adequately describe how much it hurt to fail at one of the most basic and essential parts of motherhood. I'm a writer, yes, but I do not have words for what that did to me.
I've written before about the breast/bottle wars and about my struggle with breastfeeding. I've written about how my PPD affected feeding. I've written about this a lot. We keep having the same discussions and though my life has changed, SO MUCH, my position hasn't.
I'm breastfeeding The Little Miss. It's going really well. She's putting on weight like a champ and she latches like a little vacuum. I hold her hand while I feed her and she makes little piggy noises. She can eat in her sleep and I think that's hilarious. I'm also pretty jealous of that — I mean really?!?!?
I am not, at all, more bonded with her than I was with The Little Monster. She isn't any healthier. They both have weird stomach stuff and they both have my crappy immune system. I held him in the same position to give him a bottle that I hold her in at the breast. Their piggy noises and tiny fingers are the same. Her feet are bigger, but I don't think that's because of the breastmilk.
There are so many studies out there about the benefits of breastfeeding. I believe them — because I'm not some strange science denier. I've also read them and they don't show large-scale or long-lasting benefits.
I don't think formula should be pushed the way it is in some hospitals. I've read the articles. I believe them — because it's a major industry and I'm not naive.
Here's the thing: I've been shamed in a bookstore cafe for feeding my son from a bottle and I've been stared at while feeding my daughter from the breast in that same store. Both of those experiences are wrong. The important part of the story both times is that I was trying to feed my child and someone who was neither my partner nor my doctor felt the need to weigh in on how I did it.
These are MY babies. They're MY boobs. I really don't understand how it is anyone else's business how I feed my kids.
Feed them from the breast wherever and whenever they are hungry. I will stand beside you and I will get LOUD if anyone tries to shame you.
Feed them from the bottle wherever and whenever they are hungry. I will stand beside you and I will get LOUD if anyone tries to shame you.
Being a mom is hard as hell. There are a million decisions, big and small, to make and remake every hour of every day. I will fight hard for the right of every mom to make whatever decision is right for her and her family. Stop shaming formula feeding moms for not breastfeeding or pumping. Stop shaming breastfeeding moms for feeding wherever they happen to be when their kid gets hungry. STOP SHAMING MOMS! Just feed the babies. Feed all the babies please. Thank you.
Just feed all the babies.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Hello, My name is Graeme and I have a toddler.
If you follow me on Facebook, you've seen #becausetoddler and #thisiswhyikeephim on my posts about the roller coaster that is parenting a two-year-old. I've been told to keep my seat belt on for year three as well, so... yay?
This post isn't really about Buddy though. It's about you. And me. And my friends. His latest feat has been taking his diaper off and smearing his shit all over himself and his room during naptime. In response to this, I did what moms all over the world do now when their kid does something disgusting/confusing/horrifying, I went to Facebook.
The first time he did it, my post was pretty funny, look at this toddler right of passage we just went through. The responses were poop jokes and virtual back slapping.
The second time, I was a little pissed. The responses this time were more advice and commiseration.
The third time, I was very obviously IN NO MOOD to deal with this. My friends, my squad of mamas, were amazing. They let me vent my frustration. They didn't shame me. They didn't patronize me. They even shared their own horror stories and they were proud of me for not losing my own shit (pun intended). They lifted me up. A few had some advice that I hadn't tried before. A few mentioned that they had gotten through the same phase by crying and screaming and wouldn't recommend that. No one passed judgment. No one said this was my fault or that I should have or shouldn't have done X, Y, or Z.
We see groups of parents tear each other down online pretty regularly. Moms have gotten the worst rap for doing it, but dads are catching up in this race to the bottom of human behavior. At the same time, we know more and more mothers and fathers are dealing with postpartum mental illnesses and need our support. We know even when we are perfectly healthy this parenting gig is hard as hell. We know the most powerful words someone can hear are, "Me too. You aren't alone."
The parents in my life and in my online communities are supportive. They are curious and open and willing to admit mistakes. They are not perfect at all, but each of us believe that you are the very best parent for your child, and each of us are struggling to believe that we are the very best parent for our children. It's not that we never have a knee-jerk judging thought — it's that we try our best to not let that be our last thought and to not let that thought be the one we type out.
Some of this is luck, I have met some truly amazing people online. Some of this is the result of the principle of “like attracts like”: Judgy people won't enjoy me. Some of this is simply because I won't stand for it any longer. I will speak up for myself and for others and I will unfriend and block people who try to come for me or mine.
The end result is that on a day when I was pushed to the limit, by a work overload, by a cluster-feeding newborn, and by a poop=smearing toddler — I was able to find solace and humor and hope and it meant so much to me.
How do we change the culture on Facebook and other online spaces? By doing it. Be that friend who posts about the bad days as well as the good. Be that friend who doesn't judge, but offers sympathy or empathy. Be that friend who randomly posts a reminder that you can do hard things on someone's wall. BE THAT FRIEND.
The most powerful words someone can hear are, "Me too. You aren't alone."
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
"Different baby, different experience."
Our doula, Lin, kept telling me that. I didn't really believe her — although I nodded and smiled. She said it when we first met her, when I was about three months pregnant and hadn't really decided between trying for a vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC) and having another C-section.
She kept saying it through the intervening months — via text, on the phone, and at doctor's appointments. Each time I'd smile and nod and go on being sure that this birth would be as scary as my first. In my plan, she was there to help me through the horrible thing that was coming — not to help avoid horror.
I was so, SO wrong.
I thought I wouldn't be able to sleep the night before, but I went out like a light. When I woke up, the sun was shining and I realized we were hours late for the hospital. I jumped out of bed and ran to get Adam. He shrugged and told me we'd be fine, they'd take us when we got there. I was frantically dialing Lin on my phone and trying to figure out why none of the alarms had gone off when I realized that I had to pee worse than anyone had ever had to pee in the history of time. I woke up in bed in the dark, checked the clock, took a deep breath of relief that we had not, in fact, missed anything and waddled off to the bathroom. The nightmare had woken me up five minutes before my alarm. Going to the bathroom didn't really relieve the pressure I was feeling, but I couldn't think about that because it was go time!
I took my time in the shower, knowing it was the last leisurely one I'd have for quite some time. I also kept getting distracted by pain/pressure that I thought was the baby moving around, and by the fact that I was going into surgery to have my baby. The entire shower felt unreal. As I was getting dressed I realized I had shaved one leg.
We held hands in the car, but were pretty quiet.
Lin met us at the hospital while we were signing one billion forms, and went with us to the pre-op room. She helped me remember the questions I wanted to ask the nurses and she kept me calm when my nerves started to fray.
"Different baby, different experience," she would say when I marveled at how everything was moving along just as she and my OB had said it would. Adam was making horrible puns and trying not to show how nervous he was.
It was Lin who noticed I was having contractions. She saw them on the monitor and asked how I was feeling. For just a moment I thought about what would happen if I changed my mind — maybe this was a sign that I should have this baby vaginally. The panic crept in immediately and I knew that no — this was a sign that today was the day, Boogie Baby was ready for her close up, and I was ready for this.
I walked into the OR. That was amazing to me. Everyone in the room introduced themselves and told me what their job was. My OR nurse said I could just hop up onto the table and they'd get started with the spinal block. We joked that I couldn't exactly hop anywhere. The nerves had started to come back now that I was separated from Lin and Adam, and they must have showed on my face. The nurse took my hands as she had me bend into position. She stroked the back of each of my hands with her thumb, firmly, and she narrated what the anesthesiologist was doing. As I lay down, she walked me through the procedure, and then Lin and Adam were back with me. He was at my side, holding my hand and Lin was at my head.
My doctor came in. Let me take a second just to say that I LOVE MY DR. BRIDGET. Seriously. I love that she has always treated me with kindness and respect. I love her sense of humor. I love that she supports our local postpartum depression (PPD) charity, and that she took the time to look me in the eye and tell me that everything was going to be OK. She told me what was going on and she asked if I was ready. They got started and I watched the clock and forgot to breathe until Lin reminded me.
What I remember most is that it all seemed so normal that eventually my fear subsided. They ran into some scar tissue and Dr. Bridget let me know that it was going to take a little longer. She talked to me about what I was watching on Netflix ("Jane the Virgin"), and Lin kept reminding me that everything was going well, and Adam was holding my hand and telling me I was doing great.
The sensations were familiar — the numbness of my legs, the strange tugging feeling in my midriff and then Dr. Bridget said, "OK, this is it," and then she was here. She was here and she was crying and they held her up so that I could see her before rushing her off to do the Apgar.
Adam went over to the "baby corner" with the nurse and Boogie Baby and she promptly shat everywhere. We all laughed about it and that's when I realized I was crying. Lin took over holding my hand and reassured me that everything was fine when I asked over and over again.
And then she was there, on my chest and in my arms. I'm sure other things happened after that, but I don't remember them. There was just this warm, soft, perfect thing. There were tears and laughter and I remember kissing Adam and that everyone pronounced her to be just beautiful but all I could see and think and feel was my baby. It was like I was a light that she turned on and I glowed. When she wasn't in my arms I dimmed, waiting.
Lin came with us to recovery and to our room. I was settled into the bed and some clean clothes. Then my baby was back in my arms and just like Lin had said she would, she did this weird little crawl thing to get to a boob and latch on. Different baby, different experience.
My head was clear. My baby was healthy and feeding. Adam was actually smiling (he doesn't smile y'all).
I kept thinking that this was the exact opposite of what had happened last time. This was nerves and joy and connection instead of sickness and fear and terror. I couldn't wait to show our families my beautiful, beautiful girl. I felt whole. I felt like a mom.
A few weeks later during one of her check ups with us, Lin told me that she had never seen a C-section go that smoothly — everything and everyone on time and cruising along, relaxed and focused and just ready to welcome my baby. I don't know if Dr. Bridget spoke with her team about what had happened to me before and told them I needed their A game, or if the universe just decided to apologize for my first birth. I like to think it was the second.
People say that all that matters is that mother and baby are both healthy. That isn't true. Birth trauma is real and it does serious and lasting damage to women and their families. Healing from it can take years. There are still things about the birth of my son that I haven't gotten over and I may never get over. The sick feeling of fear may never fully leave me. But being able to make choices and to give birth to my daughter in such a supportive atmosphere has gone a long way towards truly closing that wound. My wish is for every mom to get to feel like I did — that Boogie Baby and I were the center of a miracle that everyone in that room had a part in creating.
My wish is for every mom to get to feel like I did.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Events conspired. They seem to like nothing more than to conspire lately, and they did so again here. We are all alone, my Buddy and I — at least until Sunday.
We both woke up from our afternoon naps a little groggy and clingy. The day is rainy and grey, just starting to get cool. He was tucked up on the couch with his "juice" (90% water, 10% juice) and my blanket snuggled around him. All I wanted was to sit there with him so I said, "Do you want to watch fishy?" We held hands and watched "Finding Nemo" as the monologue started in my head.
Do you remember how I just wanted everyone to leave us alone when you were born? I just wanted to hide? I'm so sorry about that, mister. I'm sorry about the times I yelled at you when you were just a little baby. I'm sorry I cried every time we tried breastfeeding. I'm so sorry that I couldn't find the joy in you then.
It went on and on, the list of my transgressions. The small things and the big things, the secret shame of the fuzzy memories. I don't know what his first word was or when he crawled or took his first steps. I was there... but not. I was trying so hard to be there, to get to where we are now.
Now. Now I was sitting on the couch holding my little man's hand while Marlin tried desperately to find his son. Now I was memorizing the softness and strength of those chubby little fingers around mine and the way that our hands wove together.
This would be the last time. When the next business trip rolls around, there won't be a duo left at home, but a trio. I'm going to miss this. I'm going to miss it just being the two of us, me and my tiny person who made me a mama and gave me the will to fight for that title. He is my whole heart. It will expand with the baby’s arrival. It will grow and change in miraculous ways, as our family will. But it will never be the same.
So I held on. I refilled his juice and my water and we sat and watched. When the movie was over I followed his lead. He drove his truck around and around me making race car noises while I narrated a contest only we could see. We did most of his train puzzle and crashed cars into the cabinets in the kitchen. He only had a banana for dinner and I didn't stress about it.
At bathtime it all came out — the monologue that had been building. I needed him to hear me. I needed to say it out loud and look into his eyes as I apologized. He asked me to reach his bucket and all I could do was laugh. Deep conversations with a two-year-old, you try it some time.
Still, there is a part of me that knows he understands. He knows I'm sorry. He knows how I love him. He knows change is coming.
We sat and rocked while he had his milk and I just let myself stare at this perfect person I made. I simultaneously wished that Adam could be with us in that moment, and was so selfishly glad to have it all to myself. Pajama-clad and smelling yummy, he climbed into bed and proceeded to ask for no less than seven different books. I read them all. I did voices and we meandered back and forth on pages naming colors and shapes and his favorite things: the moon, puppies, choo-choos.
Then I came out here to write this in the silence that comes when a toddler sleeps. The baby has been kicking up a storm while I write. She took a break today and let me just be fully with her brother, but she's back now and demanding attention (and possibly ice cream).
I wanted to write this down just in case. If I lose myself again, if I don't and everything is wonderful, if life just rolls on and becomes routine once more — whatever happens, I don't want to forget this day. Tomorrow may be filled with tantrums and fatigue, after all we are talking about a toddler and a very pregnant mama. Today was soft and cool and comforting. In my darkest hours I could never imagine I would have a day like today with my son. I am so grateful to have been so grace-filled.
Deep conversations with a two-year-old.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Fingers are crossed.
We have hope.
We have a plan.
When I first found out I was pregnant, I thought of it as a second chance. Then I thought of all the things that could go wrong. I've been bouncing back and forth between those feelings for the last eight months. To friends and family, I look confident and happy and excited. These are the same people I fooled the last time though.
Adam knows differently. He's seen me read ALL THE BOOKS and he's stayed up talking about options and making plans and refining plans and throwing them out and starting over. We've talked about his worries for me and mine for him and our fears for our whole family. That may be my best piece of advice for anyone who is thinking about taking another ride on the maternal mental illness merry-go-round — TALK ABOUT THIS.
Walking around with a smile on while you are anxiety and worry ridden does no good. Sitting up at night with your fears is counterproductive.
I don't know exactly what you should do to prepare — that will depend a lot on what you went through last time and how you're feeling right now. I can only tell you what I did.
First I freaked out. I cried and I froze and I pretended an excitement I didn't feel but desperately wanted to.
Then I went to my happy place and I made more lists than anyone has ever made in the history of list-making. I made lists of what I wanted to happen, what I didn't want to happen, what I thought was likely, and of all the things I had ever heard of helping. I made lists of all the books I should read and the blogs and support groups and medications.
Then I started reading everything I could get my hands on. I don't necessarily recommend this. The list-making helped me to clarify exactly what my fears were and what my hopes were. The reading quickly became overwhelming and fed into my anxiety. The two books I would definitely suggest are, "What Am I Thinking," by Karen Kleiman, and "Mothering The Mother," by Marshall Klaus. The first is about how to make decisions that are right for you and the second is about what a doula can do to support you before and after the baby arrives.
We decided on a doula, even though I'm having a scheduled C-section. This will take a huge weight off of Adam — he knows our doula will be there to take care of me no matter what happens. If he ends up needing to be in the nursery with our baby again like last time he won't feel as torn in two. Our doula also has decades of breastfeeding support experience and postpartum depression/anxiety (PPD/A) experience. She's coming to our next doctor's appointment and we'll be walking through how everything should go, what could go wrong, and what we want to have happen in case of emergencies.
I went back on my meds, Zoloft specifically, a couple months ago. I started at a really low dose and then slowly stepped up. Right now I'm back at the dose that worked for me when I was sick last time. The hope is that it will give me some protection from the hormonal storms headed our way.
The first week in October is therapist week. I have appointments with three therapists who have PPD/A experience. I want to be seeing someone for a while before the baby’s arrival. I want to go ahead and cover everything that happened before and give them a baseline feeling for who I am when I'm healthy. I want to have someone I am comfortable with so that if I need a hand to hold in the storm, I don't have to reach for a stranger.
I have three online support groups that I'm a part of. THREE. One is specifically for mamas going through all this again. One is a general moms group and one is a PPD/A survivors group. If I end up not being able to leave my house for a while I won't be as cut off as I was last time. I also have a network of real life support groups that I can attend.
I've been transforming our porch into a postpartum oasis where I can go to breastfeed or blog or just breathe. I wrote about it here and I'm really excited about how it's coming together.
I even have an exercise plan. UGH.
Most of my friends and family have specific jobs to do afterwards. Adam and I will also have a list put together and posted in our house so that when people ask, "What can I do?" we can point to the next thing on the list. His parents will be keeping Buddy while we're at the hospital and for two days once we get home, so that we can get our sea legs. Then they'll be bringing dinners for the rest of the week. My mom will be taking Buddy once a week for a day of running around and being the center of attention. My dad is paying for our house to get cleaned each week. I'm already planning out meals that I can freeze. Adam has promised me that he will continue to go to the gym and take care of himself so that I don't have to carry the guilt of 'ruining his life'.
Will any of these things help you? I don't know. Make your lists. Figure out what your fears are as specifically as possible and figure out what triggers those fears. Then see if there is anything that you, or anyone else, can do to avoid them.
I have no idea what will happen this time. I do know that we are as prepared as we can be. I do wish that I had a plan like this the first time around and that makes me hopeful that whatever happens we'll be able to handle it.
Are you staring down your second or third time around? What are your hopes and fears and plans? Have any advice to share? Please let us know in the comments!
But we still have to talk it through.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I woke up exhausted after a shitty night of sleep. Buddy was in a mood to match my own and getting to drop off without either of us crying was a major accomplishment. I ran my first errand of the morning and then decided to reward myself with breakfast at Panera before my second errand — trying to figure out why my father's wireless printer wasn't working. He swore it was because it wasn't plugged in to the laptop. He's 86 so I stopped trying to explain it was wireless and just said I'd be there by 9:30 a.m. There wasn't a lot of traffic by the time I hit the highway, most people were already at work. There were huge trucks everywhere though. They were oversized haulers carrying big pieces of equipment and the most massive tires I have ever seen in my life. I didn't notice the cop behind me for a while.
Eventually I started getting nervous. I checked my speed — for maybe the first time in my life I wasn't speeding. I signaled and switched lanes. He did the same.
Her name rang in my head. I don't know if I said it out loud or whispered it like a prayer. I started to sweat though. I kept one eye on my speed and one on the road as my thoughts raced. My tags are good, license good, insurance up to date. I have three sisters who are lawyers, two who practice, one who works for the DOJ. Who would be most likely to pick up? Did I dare to take a hand off the wheel to pick up the phone? No.
My dad was expecting me at 9:30 a.m. How long would he wait before calling me if I was late? Would he even remember what time we were meeting? How many miles had this cop been behind me? Should I change lanes again? No.
I checked the odometer and then went back to watching my speed and the road. Now I was shaking and sweating.
OK, where is all of my paperwork? It's all in a bundle in the glove compartment. Do I reach for it before he gets to the car or do I call someone or do I start recording? What do I do first? I don't want to die, I do not want to die.
The shaking stops and a deadly calm comes over me as Boogie Baby twirls and whirls inside me. It's been two miles now. If he was going to pull me over, he'd have done it by now. If I pull off here, I can take the long way. I signal and exit.
I do not care if you have a gun and a taser and the support of millions, you will not kill this beautiful baby girl I am making. What if that would be the thing? The spark? The incident that finally made people wake up and say that this is wrong and that something has to change? NO. NOT WORTH IT. Do I drive straight to Dad's house or do I go to Panera? More people at Panera. People = safety. Do people = safety??? I turn right.
Sandra Bland's mom in front of the Bean in Chicago. My mom looks white. She isn't, but she looks like she is, so maybe people would pay attention if it were a white woman asking why her child and grandch — NO. I refuse to think it. I can't stop thinking it. I can't stop seeing Sandra's face in my rear view mirror. I can't stop hearing her voice asking why she had been pulled over, asking why she was being arrested. I turn right again.
It's been over five miles now. I've made three turns. Nonononononnonono not today. Please God, please. I'm almost there. Do I try to get as close to the front doors/windows as possible or do I try to find a parking space where he can't pull in next to me? Close to people, get close to people. I think of the woman who was pulled out of a post office last week by her hair while she yelled, "Let me go, I don't trust you" and of all the people who just watched her dragged away from her children. There was one guy who got that on video though. And she lived.
Shelivedshelivedshelivedshelivedshelived.
Turn into the Panera parking lot.
Oh thank you sweet baby Jesus, there is a spot right up front, right in front of the bay windows. The place is packed. He blocked me in. He flashed his lights and then he drove away. That's when the shaking came back. I opened the car door and vomited out all the fear and bile I'd been choking on for miles. I sobbed, on my knees in the parking lot with my head pressed against the seat of the car. A lovely woman named Janice came over to see if I was OK. She held my hand while I shook and sobbed, she helped me into the seat and she got me some water.
Eventually I went inside and ordered food for myself and my dad. I fixed his printer, which was not broken, and I helped him pack for his trip to St. Thomas. I paid a bill, went to the grocery store, went to the bakery, and then picked up my son from daycare. Maybe I hugged him a little too tight, but when he wanted to walk I put him down and let him run as fast as his chubby toddler legs would go. We're home now. He's had lunch and a cuddle and is napping. I got some work done and replied to an email from a friend who needed help.
My head isn't pounding anymore and the shaking and sweating are gone. I drove home through town instead of using the highway. Because I'm scared. Still. Sitting safe in my home with my son sleeping peacefully and my daughter kicking my ribs, I'm scared. I'd love nothing more than to never drive again. But I have things to do.
You will not kill my child.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Baby #2 is scheduled to arrive on November 2, 2015. So — we know she won't actually arrive that day, but that's pretty much all I can say that I know. Unlike my first pregnancy, I am now secure in the knowledge that I know pretty much nothing.
I have lived more and read more and experienced more — that doesn't necessarily mean that I know more about this child who is coming. She is already so different from her brother, and has been since the very beginning, in both the physical and emotional ways she's impacted me during this pregnancy. I keep telling Adam that I'm pretty sure we're ready to be parents again, but I'm not so sure we're ready for this particular child. This is going to be one hell of a ride, kiddos.
Being me, I went back to my happy place: my lists and my books. One of my main concerns was how will I get work done and take care of Buddy while carrying a newborn around? Should I even carry her around? What's the best way for me to be ready for whatever personality kicks its way out in the fall?
These are not easy questions. These are especially tricky questions for someone like me who avoids the mom wars and all of their battlegrounds like the plague.
You could say that we are an RIE family. Buddy is in a Montessori/RIE daycare. The books I found myself most attracted to are all based somehow on either Maria Montessori or Magda Gerber's teachings. It makes sense to me: Babies and toddlers are actually whole people who have likes and dislikes and agendas of their own. Our job as parents is to help them learn about and negotiate society and the world. I read these books and kept saying, "Well, of course!"
One of the big principles is to leave babies alone. Give them time and space to explore their own thoughts and bodies. Have respect for their process and their timeline. This also makes so much sense to me. I cannot wait to spend quiet time watching her discover our ceiling fan or the skylight the way her brother did.
BUT.
The first time I didn't have a business to manage. The first time I didn't have a toddler to take care of. The first time I didn't have experience with postpartum depression and anxiety behind me and I didn't know what I needed to stay healthy.
So I'm looking into baby wearing. I'm looking at wraps and ring slings and carriers. I'm staying away from the baby-wearing sites because I've been there before and I know that I'll hear that babies need to be close to mama as much as possible or else. I'm staying away from the RIE sites because I've been there before and I know that I'll hear that babies need freedom or else.
I don't know much. But I do know what I need. I need a safe place to lay her down and give us both space from each other and time to be separate people. I need a way to have her close to me while still having my hands free. I know she needs a mama with fewer panic attacks and less depression than her brother had to deal with. I know I need to be that mama for her and for myself.
And so once again, I'm reading books and articles and trying on things in stores and staying far away from the comments. Which is sad, because I'm sure that there are other mothers out there who could give me the benefit of their experience.
The plan for now? Give her as much freedom as I can whenever I can. Talk to her about what's happening in her world and in mine. Hold her tight when she needs it or when I do. Try and find the courage to trust that I am the best mother for my children. Stay away from the comments section — the ones online and the one in my head.
Pretty much nothing.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020. I
"I thought I was the only one!"
I hear it all the time. I hear it in support groups and I read it in the comments online. I hear it over the phone and I read it via messenger. Each mother is totally and completely sure that she is alone in her illness, that she is the worst to ever have these symptoms, and that it is her fault. Approximately 950,000 mothers will suffer from a maternal mental illness each year. That is almost ONE MILLION MOMS. That is more than four times the number of women who will be diagnosed with breast cancer this year (about 210,000).
Not only are you not alone now, you never were alone. When your world drained of color and everything turned grey, you were not alone. You were not the only mother who threw all of the knives out of the house or who wouldn't go near the stairs or the bathtub because of the images in your head you couldn't control. You weren't alone when you were raging and screaming or when you broke down afterwards from the guilt and fear. You were never, ever alone.
Right now, there are almost a million moms all across this country who are right there with you. They are at work, at school, driving carpool, and making dinner. They are questioning and second guessing and hating themselves and wishing it could be different.
They are going to therapy and to the doctor. They are going to acupuncture and yoga and running and swimming and coloring and dancing and they are trying so hard to be kind to themselves and to heal.
They are reaching out to each other and opening up to each other and they are discovering that they are not alone. They were never, ever alone.
They are deep in the depths and they are climbing towards the light. They are in recovery and they are recovering from the recovery. They are deciding not to have children again and they are announcing pregnancies and they are leaving things up to fate.
They are learning to turn guilt into regret and let it go and they are teaching and supporting each other on that road.
None of us were ever alone. When you felt like you were in the deepest hole and could not, should not ever be rescued I was right there too. I felt that too. Every year almost a million moms will join us. None of them will ever be alone either, even when they don't know it, because we are already here.
#AskHer #TellHer #ClimbOut
So, what can you do? Oh, so many things!
Tell your story, if you're ready. Telling your story, to a friend or on a blog or in the comments section on another post — telling your story anywhere can be so powerful and freeing.
Tell a pregnant friend: Tell her that 1 in 7 new moms will develop this complication of childbirth and that if she does there is so much help available to her.
Get and give support: Find a local support group and join! Go to get help or go to give it. Go.
Join or Lead a Climb: Climb Out of the Darkness is the largest nationwide fundraiser for maternal mental health and is put on by Postpartum Support International.
There are awesome women all over the country who are changing lives. I call them Warrior Moms. Some call them survivors. You can find them by going to Postpartum Support International. There you'll find information and support for moms and families around the world.
We are here.
We will be here.
You are not alone.
You never were.
There are almost a million moms all across the country who are right there with you.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I'm pregnant now with a super ninja. She sneaks up on my bladder and attacks with lightning speed. I'm only 28 weeks in, but I change underwear a couple times a day and sometimes wear pads when I know I have to be out of the house for a while. Don't be jealous.
After Buddy was born I got really, really sick. Postpartum depression and anxiety KICKED MY ASS. It took months of therapy and drugs to get me mostly back to myself, and this pregnancy has been a huge leap of faith.
My first pregnancy sucked. Early motherhood sucked. This pregnancy has sucked so far. (There's been fun with dehydration and hospitalization.) I'm doing all I can so that early motherhood with my daughter won't suck as much as it did with my son.
For moms who get sick, for moms who don't, for the ones with no help, and the ones with armies at their backs, for the ones who stay at home, and the ones who go back to work, there is a truth that is still taboo: A lot of this sucks. It sucks hard.
Every mother I know is hurt and pissed and annoyed about something having to do with her pregnancy, her birth experience, and/or her baby/toddler/child. Yes, even the super crunchy all-vegan-everything, orgasmic water birthing, yoga moms. Even the moms who underwent IVF and fought for YEARS to be able to carry their babies, end up with sore nipples and no sleep and food thrown on their clothes just as they were about to walk out the door for work. Even the moms who breezed through pregnancy eventually had to poop for the first time after labor. Even the moms who are so in love with their little ones, they sometimes can't breathe — may also have C-section scars that mean sometimes they can't bend over.
So here's what I'm going to do. When he pisses me off — I'm just going to say it. When she kicks me so hard I have internal bruising — I'm going to say it. When I get scared I'll lose myself again after #2 is born — I'm going to say that, too. No more self-editing and no more qualifying. I am going to assume you all know I love my kids. I am going to assume you all love your kids, too. I am going to assume love.
So feel free to rant and rave in the comments. Be petty, be picky. Whine. Get it out. Because this shit is hard and sometimes it sucks. We get to say that. We have to live it, so we get to say it.
Here’s what I’m going to do.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Before I had a baby I was, like most childless people, the perfect parent. The list of things I would always do and never do was long, detailed, and set in stone. Then Andrew arrived and with him came postpartum depression and anxiety. That potent combination of the three of us — me, my baby, and my mental illness, made me throw pretty much every single always and never out of the window.
It changed me. I am stronger and more fragile now. I am more complete and riddled with holes. It's complicated.
One of my favorite things about the new me is that ALWAYS and NEVER are almost gone. I will always love my child. I will never stop loving him. The same goes for the little girl I'm carrying now. Other than that? I have absolutely no idea.
I have plans. Yes. I have books and lists and experiences behind me to learn from. I have friends and mentors and hopes and dreams. I have doctors and medications. Those things I have.
I have very few judgments left, though. It's hard to look down on someone when you're in your own pit of despair and can barely see out of it. It's hard to get angry at other mothers when you have felt like the worst mother in the universe for so long. I ask myself, who am I to judge? And the answer is: I have no idea.
But I'm online, so it's expected. I move in this blogging world and on Facebook and Twitter and every few seconds there's an uproar because World Breastfeeding Week alienates bottle-feeding moms or someone writes an article about how you can't practice attachment parenting and RIE or how co-sleeping is the most dangerous way to parent or the only way to make sure your baby or child is secure.
People get mean. People get ugly. People get defensive and friendships will end over cloth diapering or over specific types of cloth diapering.
I get it. I really do. For many of us, this is the most important thing we will ever do in our lives. We feel like if we do these specific things, we won't screw up our kids, and all we want out of life is to not screw up our kids. Then along comes someone else who is not only doing the thing we won't allow ourselves to do, but they are also saying it's better. They're saying the thing we know is wrong is the very thing that will keep their kids safe and make our kids unsafe (or unloved, or, or, or, etc.).
None of it is really true. I can think of maybe three or four things that are universally good for every child: food, shelter, medical care, love, education. After that? Well, after that there is very little 100% certainty.
I read through these threads and rants and the fear is so real, so palpable, that I don't know how we all don't see it. So here's what I want to tell you all — everyone who is in the mom wars — you are all right. You are all good enough. You are all the very best mother for your child. YOU. ARE. And that is enough.
Depressed mama — you are good enough. Anxiety-filled mama — you are good enough. OCD terrified mama — you are good enough. Breastfeeding mama — you are good enough. Bottle-feeding mama — you are good enough. Pumping mama — you are good enough. Cloth diaper mama — you are good enough. Disposable diaper mama — you are good enough. Vegan mama — you are good enough. Vegetarian mama — you are good enough. Omnivore mama — you are good enough. Yoga mama — you are good enough. Workout mama — you are good enough. Couch mama — you are good enough. No TV mama — you are good enough. Some TV mama — you are good enough. TV-saves-my-life mama — you are good enough. Working mama — you are good enough. Stay-at-home mama — you are good enough. Work-at-home mama — you are good enough. Mama with a full-time nanny — you are good enough. Mama with part-time help — you are good enough. Mama who wishes for help — you are good enough. Single mama — you are good enough. Divorced mama — you are good enough. Married mama — you are good enough. Lesbian mama — you are good enough. Adoptive mama — you are good enough.
Is anyone spotting a trend here?
These little things that we're fighting about are all part of a really big thing — how we will raise our children. It's OK to be passionate about that. It's OK to disagree. It is not OK to attack another mother, father, or caregiver. It is not OK to let your own fears lash out at someone else.
We are the moms who refuse to fight other moms. We are the moms who will have your back, and let you make your choices, and not let anyone come after you.
You are good enough.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I have a question: Who decided that blindness was a good thing? When did that happen? I'm 36 and so many of my white friends were raised with this notion that "we don't see color" and "we're all the same." Guess what? WE'RE NOT.
I wake up every day in a country where my son could be shot for playing with a water gun on the street and where my daughter could be brutalized for inviting friends to our neighborhood pool and where taking my children to Bible study is an act of bravery. My white friends don't live in that country. They don't live with that fear. It doesn't even occur to some of them to be afraid for me. They are shocked every time something like the Charleston Massacre happens. I'm not. I'm not because as much as I love them, we are not the same.
Why is that bad? Why do we all have to close our eyes to all of the wonderful differences in order to have equality? Who decided this? Whoever it is was wrong.
Color is still there whether you teach your kids about it or not, whether you acknowledge it or not. You can tell your child that everyone is equal, but the world will tell them the exact opposite and if you don't equip them for that world then you are part of the problem. Everyone is NOT the same.
I need you to open your eyes. I need you to see color. I need you to see the color of your neighbors who are being brutalized and killed. We are standing all around you and we are dying because you cannot see us.
I don't want there to be a day when 'color doesn't matter'. My grandparents' illegal marriage should always matter. My great-grandfather's enslavement should always matter. My father's fear riding through Mississippi registering voters should always matter. The Native American holocaust should always matter. Japanese internment should always matter. Today is Juneteenth, that should always matter. The list goes on and on and on.
You want to know how to stop more massacres? Buy your children books that center on children that look nothing like them. Learn about the history and the present of cultures other than your own. Tell them the truth about the country that we live in. Raise them to see the differences and to know that the differences are what make us stronger. The differences can bind us together if we let them.
No one ever told the terrorist who murdered nine people in Mother Emanuel that Black people are human beings. No one ever told him that we are citizens of this country. No one ever told him that we have souls. No one ever told him that we have worth. Don't tell me how sad it is that we have to say those things in this day and age — be sad, that's fine — but please tell them to your children anyway.
This is not the last time something like this will happen. If you really want it to stop, if you really want me to not have to live in fear every day, you will have to actually do some work. You'll have to teach your children. You'll have to stand up to your friends. You'll have to do some research and learn some history and you'll have to call out those who won't. I can't stop another mass killing of Black people by white people. Only other white people can do that. You cannot do that while willfully blind.
I need you to open your eyes. I need you to stand up. I am scared. I've been scared for years, but since my son was born I have lived in a state of terror that I think only mothers of children of color can understand. His father's whiteness cannot save him. I cannot save him. There are targets on our backs and prices on our heads. I cannot remove them.
The terrorist was caught. That's good. There are 200,000 signatures on a petition to remove the Confederate flag from the Statehouse grounds. That's good, too. There are rallies and marches and all of that is good. None of it is enough. In a week, the funerals will be over and the cameras will be gone. We'll be reading about another young Black boy shot to death by police for being suspicious, or once again we won't hear a word when it happens to a young Black girl. Another young man will tell racist jokes to his friends and they'll brush it off because it doesn't really mean anything... until it does. It will never stop until everyone, until you — reading this right now — you open your eyes and then open your mind and then open your mouth. You need to stand up no matter how uncomfortable it is. We're dying. Comfort is no longer the goal.
Here are some resources:
SPLC List of Hate Groups (KNOW who is in your area!)
Showing Up for Racial Justice - An Anti-Racist Organization for Whites
We’re not all the same.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
There are multiple clocks ticking away in my life at the moment. I seem to be always living "until" or waiting to start something.
We're waiting for Baby #2’s arrival. I'm waiting to see how my mind reacts to that. Waiting to see if I can breathe this time. Waiting to see if I lose myself this time. Waiting to see her face.
My business kind of blew apart last month. Everything will be resolved by July 3, so once again I'm waiting. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the email, call, knock at the door. Waiting for this weight to lift so that I can breathe again.
I am trying to stay calm. I'm trying not to worry too much or to over prepare and make endless lists. I'm trying to focus on right now, today. What needs to get done this minute and the next minute and the next.
But...
The anxiety creeps in. The worry and fear. They sensitize me until my skin feels electric and I cannot bear to be touched and everything, EVERYTHING, is personal and painful. The house isn't clean because I suck at this and we'll never be able to handle a second child. The laundry isn't done because the fatigue makes it hard for me to move. Small interruptions make me angry and major deviations from the plan throw me into a panic.
If we were together in person you would never know any of this. I look like a woman who is a little tired because she's pregnant and has been sick a lot lately. But every breath I take and every thing I do gets harder each day.
I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon (in two hours and 30 minutes... 29 minutes...) and I'll be asking her for a Zoloft Rx. It's time to stop thinking I can do this all on my own. It's time to take some of the advice I give to so many other mothers.
It's time to ask for help.
Waiting and more waiting.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
I took Buddy to Montessori this morning. I signed him in and we walked around to the playground gate. Kiddos, this place is like toddler HEAVEN. Still, he lingered at the gate and tried to pull me in with him. I knelt down and gave him a hug and a kiss, and asked him what he wanted to play with, and didn't that big beach ball with the water spraying out look like fun?
Then he recognized one of the teachers from his "warm ins" last week and sprinted off to her. She got a hug and a big kiss and I have never in my life been that jealous of a woman. EVER. I wanted to run in there and snatch him up and yell, "MINE!"
But I waved and walked away and drove off to do some errands. This is how it begins — he'll just keep leaving me and coming back and leaving again from now on.
We're making room and making plans for Baby #2’s arrival in the fall. Part of that is for Buddy to start at a daycare he loves. Check. This should free me up to focus on my business and get some rest and do some nesting. Check... sort of...
I got work done, a lot of work. But I kept seeing him running away from me in my mind's eye. It's good that he's happy there. It's wonderful there's a teacher who makes his eyes light up and brings a smile and a kiss to his lips. These are all things that I'm grateful for. Montessori was MY idea. We're sure paying enough for it.
And yet, I find I miss being interrupted constantly to kiss a puppy or a fire truck or to read a story or to count one, two, three, GO! or change a diaper or make a snack or go for a walk.
This school is amazing. The kids (six months to kindergarten) are having fun and learning, the teachers are certified in like a million specialties. They have an on-site organic garden for heaven's sake! And they are a certified Monarch butterfly sanctuary. One of the teachers is an artist in residence — because two-year-olds should totally be learning string instruments. He's with kids his age, learning new things, making new friends, having a wonderful time.
I can focus now. I can get so much more done. I finished about a week's worth of work in three hours. I can work on his room and the office and maybe get the house somewhat clean. I can write to all of you. I can study and learn and advocate for moms with maternal mental illnesses. I can plan his second birthday party this month and my trip to Boston for the Postpartum Progress Conference next month.
Or I can just sit here and stare at the clock.
Ten more minutes and I can go pick him up, bring him home, and get nothing done for the rest of the day but love.
And I miss him so much.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020. I’m sharing it here because it’s still important — in many cases, not nearly enough has changed. I’ve been talking about The Motherload™️ and the humanity of moms for more than a decade now, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be stopping anytime soon.
I should have known better.
Every time I see the picture and the article, I get angry. I usually just walk away (or whatever the internet equivalent of that is) but tonight was different. It was on George Takei's Facebook page and for some reason that made it worse. See, I love Uncle George. I think he's funny, smart, and kind above all. There have been things that he has posted that he has taken down and apologized for after thinking them through and hearing from fans. And so I thought... maybe...
I was so wrong.
The picture is actually multiple 3D shots of babies in the womb, some supposedly in pain, with a headline about the "horrors" of smoking while pregnant. Now let's get some things straight before anyone gets the pitchforks out: I do not think that pregnant women should smoke. BUT I also do not think that clickbait like that should be used to shame women who do. The study the article references is not peer reviewed, the pictures are never linked to specific times when the mothers were smoking, and the most the article can say is that babies tend to touch their faces more if the mothers are smokers.
I was a smoker when I got pregnant. I was able to quit pretty much immediately. Not because I'm a better mother than you, or because I have tremendous reserves of willpower, or because I love my baby more than you do. It was because I was lucky. The hold cigarettes had on me was mostly mental — once I was able to prioritize my baby over that cigarette, it was easy. My physical addiction level was low.
I know women who weren't that lucky. I know women who cried through each cigarette they smoked while pregnant, who went to hypnotherapists and regular therapists and support groups. Who tried the gum, and replacing it with food, and one who cut herself instead of smoking. I don't love my child any more than any of them. I'm not a better mother than any of them because I was able to quit.
We don't recognize pregnant women as human beings. We see them as walking incubators. All of a sudden, the baby is the POINT, your reason for existing. The thing is — that's not true. Her past informs her present, and the mother who is addicted to nicotine may not be able to quit. Should she have to look at those pictures and imagine her baby screaming in pain inside her? No. Should we be sharing pictures like that, linked to articles that in no way back them up? I don't think so. And that's what I said.
I'm really disappointed in you George.
This is a small study with no real conclusions and the pictures do nothing but demonize addicted mothers.
Pregnant women are human beings. We have a full range of feelings and foibles.
While every pregnant woman wants what is best for her child, not every one is physically or mentally able to quit.
They shouldn't be shamed by you with bad science.
Then the comments started. At last count there are 48. At first, I tried to respond to people. I tried to explain to the people who called me idiotic and lazy and a bad mother that although I had been able to quit I did not think that gave me, or anyone, the right to judge women who couldn't. But apparently the idea that I would want people to stop and think before they judge means that I would encourage women to smoke and that I would support child molesters.
It was the child molester comment that drove me to tears. Is that what this woman really thinks of me? Probably not. Does she know me? No. Should I care what she thinks of me? No. She was trying to be funny, or mean, or both. Or maybe she was trying to make the point that she thought that smoking was as bad as molesting a child. Did she ever stop to think that the person she was writing to was a survivor who would find the idea of being compared to a molester physically painful? No.
I'd like to ask you all a favor. Before you comment on something you see online stop, take a breath. When you write it out, stop, take a breath, and read what you just wrote. Would you be comfortable saying that to someone's face?
No one seemed to care that I was not supporting smoking for pregnant women. I was asking for horrible pictures to not be shown to them to try and shame them, and to us so we can judge them from the safety of our computer screens.
I'm telling you all this story because this is so, SO unnecessary. It isn't just how the internet is. We don't have to live by 'don't read the comments!' We can actually read what people are saying, we can ask for clarification and we can reply and disagree without trying to destroy each other. There is no winning the internet, so can we all just stop playing dirty?
There is no winning the internet, so can we all just stop playing dirty?
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020. I’m sharing it here because it’s still important — in many cases, not nearly enough has changed. I’ve been talking about The Motherload™️ and the humanity of moms for more than a decade now, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be stopping anytime soon.
I was going to write a different post. I just deleted about 300 words on my C-section. About our trip to the hospital, about the hell that is Pitocin, about my doubts and fears and worries. It was a way for me to justify my C-section to all of you.
Which is bullshit.
My C-section came from a decision made by my doctor, Adam, and myself. It was the right decision for me. When we have another child it will be by C-section. Not because my doctor won't support a vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC), but because I don't want one.
That's right. I want to have another C-section. There are so, SO many things that I cannot control about pregnancy and motherhood. This is a decision that I get to make and I have made it. I am not a victim and I am not ill-informed.
I am supported and listened to, and I have chosen a C-section. I also want to have a doula present. I do not want to watch the procedure, but I do want skin-to-skin contact with my baby in the operating room while I am being closed up, and family time before I am moved to recovery.
I understand there are doctors who use C-sections to avoid long labors, and there are doctors who use them when they are not medically necessary, and there are doctors who use them without the consent of the mother or without offering other options. The depths of my anger at these doctors can only be surpassed by the anger of the women they have committed malpractice on. I understand the numbers of C-sections performed in this country are extremely worrying and the number of doctors who flatly refuse to consider VBAC is absolutely ridiculous. There are so many things that need to change and I will do my best to help change them.
But can we all stop talking about how horrible C-section is? Because it isn't. The C-section, in and of itself, is not a horrible thing. It is a surgery designed to bring life into the world. It is a tool, and like any tool it can be misused. It can be horribly misused.
Your C-section experience may have been awful. I know women, women I love, who had doctors I would like to gut punch for the way their C-sections happened. That does not invalidate my experience or my choice. It does not make C-section horrible.
Your C-section recovery may have been awful. That does not make C-section awful. Your C-section may have been unnecessary. That does not make C-section unnecessary.
I am not going to explain to you why I had my first C-section or why I would choose to have another. I will not explain to you why I would co-sleep or not, or in what form. I will not explain to you why I will breastfeed or bottle feed or pump or any mixture of all three. These are choices that I have and will make. They have medical consequences for myself, my baby, and my family. I will consider them and then I get to choose. That is how it should work.
Most days I am unsure of what I have learned or am learning by being on this mothering journey. Today there is one thing that I know for certain — I will not judge you. I will not judge your life, your choices, your pain, your joy. I will and have and do stand for the rights of all mothers to make informed choices about what is best for their bodies and their babies.
I would ask that you all do the same. Not every C-section is coerced, wrong, unnecessary, or preceded by a terrifying medical saga. Some were simply the right choice for the mother and child. Some were good. Some were joyous.
My prayer is that every child can come into this world in the best way for that family. That every mother can make decisions with and for her family without being judged. That we can all stand by and for each other as we demand better pre- and postnatal care for every woman in America.
My prayer is that every mother can make decisions with and for her family without being judged.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020.
Please don't read any further if it could trigger you as well.
Since I've been in recovery, there have been a few blog posts that I have avoided reading — even from writers and friends that I love. Sometimes I just knew that there were things I couldn't have in my head right then.
Most of them didn't come with trigger warnings. I've always been of two minds about them — if you think that something could hurt someone then of course you should warn them, but how can you ever know? I don't think that my experience has cleared my thinking at all. There was no way anyone could have foreseen what happened to us last night.
We had a plan for the weekend. My mom has the Little Monster and we were going to have a "just us"weekend. No hanging out with friends or parties, just the two of us doing two of us stuff — movies and board games and sitting by the fire and going to dinner and maybe even sexy time if my legs ever recovered from my first session of Personal Trainer From Hell.
We went to dinner at a restaurant on the harbor with a view of the city and the aircraft carrier. We had seafood and steak and key lime pie. Life was goooooooood. We got to the movie theater and rolled our eyes at all the 50 Shades of Nonsense and settled in for a fun ride. We went to see "Kingsman." And it was fun. Violent, really violent in a wacky way — but we were prepared for that. And then there was the baby. (SPOILER ALERT!) At the end there is a mother and her toddler. The mother has locked the toddler in a bathroom and thrown away the key. She has done this under orders from someone who is trying to keep them both safe. What she doesn't know, and the audience does, is that she — and everyone in London — is about to be turned into something more beast than human whose only desire is to do violence and kill. As the main characters fight to stop the evil plot to destroy the world this way we get cuts of people fighting like dogs in the streets and landmarks and pubs of London and cuts of this mother battering the door to that bathroom while her baby daughter cries inside. First with her fists — and then away to street scenes, action hero day saving, etc. — then things are better for a moment. Did our hero win? The fog clears and the mother looks at the bathroom door in horror before the violence descends again and suddenly she has a butcher knife and is attacking the door with that. Of course our hero saves the day and one of the last scenes in the film is of that mother holding her daughter and repeating over and over, "Mommy would never hurt you."
I ran. Typing it out now, I want to run again. I can still see every frame of the last ten minutes of that movie in my mind. I pushed through the people leaving our theatre and the crowds of Christian wannabes lining up outside and I pushed through the lobby and the doors and out into the cold, damp air. I got away from the people as far as I could while still being able to see the door and I willed myself to not throw up.
There was enough adrenaline in my system at that moment that I could have run the 10(ish) miles to my mother's house from that movie theatre, and I thought about it. I stood there in the cold and tried to remember to breathe. I waited for Dork Dad to make his way out and find me and I told myself over and over that our Little Monster was fine, that he was asleep with his grandmother, that I did NOT need to see him, that he was safe. Under no circumstances was I going to make Dork Dad drive us out there and wake up my baby. My body shook with the wanting to run to him right then and the willpower it took to stay in that one place. I felt like a cartoon character who had been hit by a cannonball — there was a huge yawning pit where my heart should have been and I NEEDED my baby in my arms. Which was ridiculous. He was fine. Everyone was safe. You are not crazy, you will not act crazy. You will stop standing here crying in public. You will NOT ask to be taken out there.
Dork Dad found me in a minute or two that felt like hours. He walked up to me and wrapped me in his arms and I almost fainted from relief. The first thing I said was "I need my baby." I don't know if I ever stopped saying it. One part of my head was screaming it over and over. I was terrified and I needed my baby. I needed to hold him, to touch him, to KNOW in my bones that he was there and safe and alive.
The other part of me was pissed. Because this was it. I had failed utterly and completely. I was now the crazy woman being helped to the car with tears and snot running down her face. No one marries that woman. No one stays with that woman. At some point one of my contacts came out. I remember the 20-minute drive as a haze of twinkling lights seen through tears — white from the cars and sometimes red or green from the stoplights. My mother wasn't going to understand. I was in no shape to handle her. So Dork Dad was going to have to do that too. I had ruined our night. I couldn't uncross my arms. If I let go I might literally fall to pieces in the car instead of just in my head. I was, at that very moment, killing whatever future we could have together because who could want to build a life with someone like me? And I couldn't stop. I kept opening my mouth to apologize, to tell him to turn back, and I couldn't.
Of course she was asleep when we got there. I don't really remember how we got in. I remember him calling her cell phone what felt like ten times and I thought I was screaming. "He's right there, why can't I have my baby?!" but looking back now I was probably whispering or whimpering. If I had actually been screaming things would have gone much differently.
Then the door was open. The door was open and suddenly my legs didn't hurt any more and nothing was wrong and I was up all of the stairs and there he was. He was just sitting up and rubbing his eyes and I reached down and he reached up and we were safe. We were OK. And he just folded himself into the hole in me and filled it. I sat down and cradled him in my lap and he sighed and closed his eyes, because Mama was there. And he was warm and sleepy, soft and perfect. I don't know how long we sat and rocked like that. At some point he looked at me and stroked my cheeks and I was okay.
I apologized for waking him up and told him that Mama just needed a hug and a kiss. He looked at me with wise, 20-month-old eyes and rubbed his cheek to mine, which was even better. I put him back in the pack and play in my mom's room and told him it was time to settle down now. He grabbed his puppy and his blankie and curled up and I sang him our goodnight song. I curled up on the floor and watched through the mesh as he shifted and settled.
I don't know how I made it down the stairs. The adrenaline and my second contact were gone, the pain in my legs was excruciating (really the worst workout, ever!) and my head was pounding. I remember apologizing to Dork Dad and my mom. I remember him holding me again. He got me to the car. Digging around in my purse for something to clean my face with, I came up with one of the Little Monster's sweatshirts. It helped to have something of him to hold as we were driving away from him. Dork Dad said we could come get him in the morning if I wanted — but I couldn't want anything through the pain and the fatigue that settled fast and thick, pressing me into a ball in the seat of the car. He got me home and inside. He got me undressed and tucked into bed, still with that hoodie in my hands. I tossed and turned all night last night. The pain in my legs and head not letting me really get comfortable, my dreams disjointed and unsettling, not letting me get any real rest.
My strongest impressions of last night are the fear that gripped me, the utter relief of holding my child, and the absolute faith that Dork Dad would take care of me. THAT MAN. That man went through all that and held my hand while I slept, and when I woke up this morning barely able to look him in the eyes, he said that he loves me and that he doesn't want anyone else. He is a fucking miracle.
In the sunlight I know that we are all safe. That it will be OK. Now it's just the guilt and shame that I have to wade through.
This was originally published on my old blog between 2012 and 2020. I’m sharing it here because it’s still important — in many cases, not nearly enough has changed. I’ve been talking about The Motherload™️ and the humanity of moms for more than a decade now, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be stopping anytime soon.
A friend of mine wrote a Facebook post some weeks back that has stuck with me. She said that she keeps having to start over. Or is it getting to start over? And which way should she think of it?
I don't know. I do know that I'm grateful each morning that I get to start over. That I get another chance to be a mother, a girlfriend, a daughter, a sister, a business owner, a friend, an advocate. I get to try once again to pick myself up off the mat, dust myself off and charge into battle.
BUT.
Holy shit is it disheartening to have to start over. And over, and over, and over. Especially when you KNOW that you will just have to start over again. This is one of the frustrations of mental illness and one of the hardest things to explain to others. My friends out there with chronic diseases know what I mean. You can make a general outline of how you'd like the day to go, you can set up a to-do list, but so much of your life is completely out of your hands.
There are things I can do to manage my illness — eat well, exercise, talk therapy, meditation, scheduling, community, and medication are all tools in my arsenal. At the moment I am using all of them to some degree except for medication. Still — there are things that can pop up and take over your day.
Let me give you an example:
I can't deal with clutter. It raises my anxiety levels, which make me feel powerless, which leads to anger and rage and eventually depression. It's a fun little cycle that I run in full or in miniature at least once a week. I run it because our house is tiny, we have a toddler, I have limited energy, and clutter does not bother Adam in the least. He honestly doesn't notice it.
If it would be possible to have nothing at all on any flat surface in our house I think I would lay down and die of joy. If everything could just have a place to live and then go live there, well, I don't even know how I would react to that kind of happiness. Right now there just isn't a home for everything. So every day I fight the clutter war — how much can I deal with looking at vs. how much energy and time do I have to expend on picking up?
This morning, I woke up feeling closed in. There is too much stuff everywhere (which is true) and I can't make room for myself here (which is not, but feels like it is). The things in the house become judgments. They become symbols. The couch in the office means that having room for his parents three times a year is more important to Adam than my having a place to work. The absolute jumble in the kitchen means that I don't have the wherewithal to take care of my family or myself. The crap scattered across the living room means that we are trashy people who don't love our son enough to give him a clean home.
Are these things true? Of course not. Tomorrow, they will sound even more ridiculous to me than they sound right now as I type this. Hopefully the day after that, this feeling will have faded even more. Today, though, they feel absolutely true and they hurt. The idea behind the thought may not be real, the thought may be false, but the pain is real and true and deep.
What triggered all of this? The recycling bin is full. That's it. That's all it takes. The miracle in all this is that I was able to pinpoint one thing that was my trigger today. I can't begin to explain what it's like to actually know what's making me crazy for once!
Thankfully today it made me angry. It made me motivated. So today I'll clean and throw away and reorganize and plan and obsess and get frustrated and probably throw something and, yes, my entire afternoon will now be about this. If I'm lucky, I'll get half of what was planned for today actually completed. And that's okay. This is how my days work sometimes — things go off the rails. I said 'thankfully' above because it could have gone another way — blame and shame and guilt and then fatigue and tears and me on the couch or in bed and not being able to get up.
It isn't every day. It isn't every week. It's less and less and I'm getting better and better at managing my triggers and creating the type of life that has wiggle room for when the bad days do occur. I'm getting better and better at recognizing the lying thoughts and letting them move through my mind without dwelling on them. I'm getting better and better at asking for help and setting myself up for success. I'm getting better and better. Every morning I get to start over. Some mornings you just have to start over.
P.S. Turns out, it's not just me — check out this article on clutter and depression and anxiety.
So much of life is completely out of our hands.