Lately I’ve been having Cinderella levels of longing to go to a Ball. A magical escape from the monotony of daily life. Because at the crux of it, this woman’s desires were rooted in her desire for freedom of choice and agency over her own life — even if it was just for one night.
And suddenly this simplistic, silly fairytale just became so much more relatable than I ever gave it credit for.
Cinderella retreated into her imagination just to stay sane. To get through the monotony of each day’s chores she had a constant vision of possible future…
Ah, the catch all solution for everyone’s life problems. An emotional dumping ground for some. A path to self-actualization for others.
The magical portal that must live up to the expectations of delivering you from your chaotic mess of a life into a peaceful Zen space in 60 minutes or less.
Obviously, it can’t do all of that. But with the frequency it is given as a recommended solution — it certainly feels like it could, or at least should.
Sure, I guess I’ll try anything once. Naively, I assumed it would work. It worked on everyone else after all…
There are a million reasons I had postpartum depression (PPD). In fact, there was so many reasons that I quickly became overwhelmed. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the strength to even try and fix it all, so instead I resorted to withering away. Every time I refused to face my problems head on, I only gave them more power over me.
I turned away. I disassociated in every sense possible. I went completely blank — my mind, my body, my emotions. I didn’t respond to my child cried out for comfort because all systems inside me had shut down…
I have a terrible confession. One that will make you want to unfriend me as a fellow mom immediately. It is not something I am proud of.
I loathe star-struck mothers.
You know the ones. Those baby-obsessed moms who appear incapable of having a single thought independent from the subject of parenting. The ones who coo over every milestone. Bask in the sunlight that radiates from their child’s smile. And cry as reminisce on the days their infant needed them the most.
Yes, I know…we should be ‘women-supporting-women.’ ‘Moms-supporting-moms.’ But I didn’t understand this type of mom.
I’d sit in…
I never could fit into the different molds of ‘motherhood’. I tried them all on and nothing fit.
I don’t even know if I even want to identify as any specific type of mom. I couldn’t stand the idea of becoming a Pinterest mom, a wine mom, a hot mess mom, or a soccer mom.
Even if I fit slightly into a particular category, I’d embrace and reject it from one hour to the next.
Tiger mom to free range. Career mom to crunchy granola mom.
I’d be all over the place.
I guess I conflicted on choosing any one…
The relationship between a mother and her unborn child is unmatched to any other relationship. In this stage of life, a mother is solely responsible for the health and well-being of another human being. Before becoming pregnant, every woman understands her body will undertake a physical toll. But through this physical sacrifice, there is an unspoken subtle brainwashing that simultaneously occurs. Your thought process becomes so ingrained by the constant awareness of this ultimate responsibility, that it may cause irreversible psychological damage.
Unfortunately, while the pregnancy experience is finite, most women are changed forever.
The timing, intensity, and length of…
In my early days of postpartum, I never understood why I couldn’t match the instant connection other mothers had with their child. A baby became a mother’s sun, moon, and stars. Their relationship seemed untouched by the struggles of real life due to the strength of the bond they held. I could not match this instant intensity of love others described having for their children. And for that I felt — ashamed.
What have I done wrong that clearly everyone else got right? Did I miss cupid’s arrow to fall in love-at-first-sight?
Years later, while watching bad reality TV, I…
Social media provides a platform for one to project perfection. My passive consumption of this content led me to believe that everyone else’s life was an unwavering constant of happiness.
Silly boomerangs. Chic aesthetic. Matching outfits. Effortless smiles.
In reality my Instagram, Facebook is a highlights reel of each person’s carefully selected moments of their life to be advertised. Composed images and captions projecting an appearance of a composed life.
Witty or thought provoking. Silly or serene. I wanted it all.
I began to blur the lines of these perfect moments from each individual into one beautifully, happy, effortlessly perfect…
We made it. One full year of breastfeeding — my goal. I should be proud, right. I faced more challenges than I ever expected and still made it through the other side. Now that I’ve finally reached the end, I reflect back and think:
Was it worth it? Were the challenges I faced worth the breastfeeding relationship we had?
The answer: No — it was not worth it.
My breastfeeding journey should have ended at 2 weeks. The first day I went to my breastfeeding support group, I knew I wanted to quit. …