There are many things in this world that are truly good for a person’s soul. For me, one of those things is the annual Girls Weekend, a tradition important enough to warrant a capital G and a capital W. After finishing undergrad, we all vowed we would never let this tradition end. Over the years, we’ve missed only two: one due to canceled flights and the other due to a dear friend living abroad. This year though, we made it happen. Four of the best friends this world has ever known under one small roof for two short nights. Four women laughing, cooking, and of course, drinking wine. Four women reminiscing, catching up, and dreaming about what life will finally be like when we have all settled in New England. And four women talking about everything, one of which in particular that truly struck me: the reality of life versus the “reality” of life according to social media. On Instagram, we all appear to be living our best lives, and in many ways, we are! But there is something to be said for the things that happen behind the closed doors of real life, the things that you don’t really want or need to share with the World Wide Web. I know that I’m truly grateful for a family and a group of friends who know, understand, and support me even when I’m at my worst; when I’m going through the things that I would never put on Instagram. But as I drove home, it struck me: maybe there is something to be said for sharing just a little with the world, for helping everyone understand that what you see is definitely not what you get when it comes to hashtags and filters. What you see on your feed should never make you jealous or envious of what you don’t have because what you see is not the whole truth. What my followers see is adorable pictures of my daughters in matching dresses, Pinterest-y parties and monthly milestone cards, and perfectly paired Pottery Barn bed linens. What my followers don’t see… that’s a different story.
Several months ago, deep within a post on this website, I wrote that I was fortunate that postpartum depression has never affected our family. It now appears that I may have jumped the gun with that little comment. I have been reluctant to write for the last few months for many reasons, as some of my readers have noticed. These days, there is really only one topic I can think of to write about and I haven’t been certain that I’m ready to share it with the world. But alas, here I am, writing. Eloise is over five months old now, and it turns out that our family is now being affected by postpartum depression. The life as a mom of two that started off as smooth sailing began to enter some stormy waters in mid-summer, and as the calendar approaches the first day of autumn, I finally feel compelled to share parts of my story.
When Eloise was approaching three months old, I began to realize that I was no longer confident in my abilities as her mother. I found myself getting stressed by the little things, which eventually trickled down to how I felt about being Clara’s mother as well. At first, it was simple. I felt I could be doing more, always should have been doing more. I should read more often to Eloise. I should book more preschool tours for Clara. I felt tired all the time, and I wasn’t enjoying my time with the girls. I played with Clara and I snuggled with Eloise, but I became less and less present in those moments. I also began to lose my coping skills. For months, I simply went through the motions during the day and rehashed my failures throughout the night. I didn’t sleep, and soon, I didn’t laugh. As a mom, I had always been pretty even-keeled. Once August rolled around, that was no longer the case. The feelings I was experiencing became clearer with each day: my family would be better off without me. It took me a long time to process those feelings, and eventually, to find the courage to talk about it. There was and is a great deal more to it than that, which I will always keep private within the confines of my family, but I needed to share the tip of my iceberg for many reasons: First and foremost, I want to break the stigma. Mental health is something we should be talking about because it will save lives. This is not my fault; it is a chemical imbalance in my brain and it needs to be treated like any other illness. It does not mean I am any less capable as a mother and it certainly doesn’t mean I love my children any less. Second, I have only shared my small, visible piece of ice. There is much more under the surface, not just for me, but for everyone you meet. It sounds cliché, but it’s true. You really don’t ever know what people are experiencing behind closed doors, so there is no need to ever be anything but kind. Third, I know many people out there who are struggling with issues that are both like and unlike those I’m experiencing. I want them to know they’re not alone. There are people out there to help, support and services to access, places to find peace. And finally, I’m proud to share that though I have a long road ahead of me, our family finally has a plan in our heads and hope in our hearts. The joy is slowly returning to our lives, and while there are still moments of sadness and questions, and feelings of hopelessness or despair, they are fewer and farther between. I’m taking one day at a time, and when that doesn’t work, one hour at a time. But I know this much is true: today is and always will be a good day to have a good day.
