*Trigger warning*
This post contains mental health struggles; anxiety, overwhelm, post-natal depression and a feeling of wanting to die. If these are struggles you are going through; please reach out to support systems – if you have none; please reach out to me. Nobody should struggle alone.

Trigger warning done; I’ll be honest – this is a very hard piece of writing to begin – and I am choosing to share this, vulnerably, because I know that I would have benefited from reading someone else’s story last year.

It’s December; the joy and festivity is pushed and though yes, there are more conversations about how this month is a particularly difficult one for lots of people, most of it gets drowned out by capitalism, consumerism, competition and comparison – 4 C’s for a very rough month.

Confessions

This time last year; I was in the middle of a postpartum breakdown.

I haven’t ignored it this year; but for the most part, I’ve moved forward. Now; it’s coming up to the anniversary of the exact moment of my rock bottom crisis and I am being guided inward. I’m feeling a pull to reflect, to mourn, to accept, and to celebrate.

Last year, I was less than 6 months postpartum, navigating 3 kids, military spouse life, homeschooling and a whole host of mum guilt; not to mention the whole continued saga and fallout of the c0v*d19 lockdowns. I was overwhelmed. Sleep deprived. Emotionally exhausted. Touched out. Annnnd whatever else you could throw in the mix that comes with new parenting; plus navigating siblings – essentially; I needed help.

Unfortunately; I also am the kind of person who felt like asking for help was weak.

Added to that, the healthy and regular doses of comments (from professionals, strangers, acquaintances and even friends) that I should have expected it, that I had chosen 3 so close together, that I was exaggerating, that I should be more grateful, and that I looked like I had my hands full – I wasn’t too keen on asking for help; for fear I wouldn’t get it; and for fear of judgement.

Looking back, I see how vulnerable I was.

And how vulnerable, by default, my kids were.

I reached out for help – I reached out to professions and was told I needed to toughen up (or go onto antidepressants – which I personally did not want to do). I reached out to friends – it helped, but far away and in different situations, I felt a burden (which I understand now, was contributing to my overwhelm, and was/is related to trauma). I reached out – in the ways I could – and overwhelmingly the message was – “you’re struggling, but not enough”.

Not enough.

Not enough became engrained into how I felt.

I felt not enough.

I felt like I was failing.

I felt like I couldn’t cope.

And one day, after a particularly overwhelming moment with the kids, emotions running high, and extra sleep deprivation thrown into the pot, I snapped.

I remember standing in the hallway, next to the jackets and heater and the kitchen floor being cold as I moved away from it; hyperventilating and crying. H came downstairs after making sure the kids were okay with whatever they were playing or doing; and he tried to hug me; but I just couldn’t catch my breathe. And in between gasps I said to him; “I feel like I am dying – I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Not struggling enough…

The truth is, we can’t see how much someone is struggling. If they’re asking for help, it’s because they need it.

This rock bottom; for me was a wake up call. H and I discussed getting help, and I did the only thing I felt I had access to – signed up for online therapy – starting that week; a few days after Christmas.

Truthfully; I didn’t want to admit to anyone just how hard it felt.

I also didn’t want to be told again that I didn’t seem to be struggling – because I was still grateful. I was still doing activities with the kids and going for walks etc; I was masking and coping. And I was burning out trying to hide.

Therapy helped. I felt validated. I got curious.

Then, after a while, I stopped; and I began to help myself. I began to disassociate with that anxiety and that overwhelm. I began to create spaces for myself; and I began to ask for what I needed again. Therapy was like the band aid, I needed it to start; but the deep, intentional, ritualistic healing I wanted and needed; began when I accepted that nobody would do it for me; that, just like in birthing my babies; I was the one who could and would do it. And not that I was alone, but I did, and I do, have the power to do it.

Compassion

My word for 2022, I decided after my breakdown, was compassion. I knew I’d need a lot of it. For myself, and for my children – and it was the right choice.

Through compassion; therapy, books, journaling, yoga, breath work, walking, gratitude practices and creating everything from cards and canvas’s to kids books and t-shirts; I’ve moved from a space of wanting to die; feeling like I was dying, to a space of absolute joy – even surrounding the hardest moments; I can look at my life and know that I want it. I choose it. I am creating it.

Compassion, Creativity and Celebration have been the 3 C’s that have helped me navigate this rollercoaster year. Calm would be the 4th C, if I need to throw one in.

Returning to calm; being curiously compassionate, creating with my children and alone, and celebrating myself – I can sit here, write, listening to the rain and know, that without a doubt; I’ve moved mountains this year. I have grown, stretched, adjusted, aligned – and I am a better human for it.

I am good enough.

As a mum

As a friend

As a family memeber

As a human

I am good enough.

Continued Growth

The work is by no means done.

In fact, in some ways, it’s only beginning.

As I look to the darkest parts of myself, and I begin to really deepen my relationship with her, I am met again and again with this enoughness. I am reminded that when I felt like I couldn’t open up anymore; when I felt like I just couldn’t keep going in the birthing of my children; that was when I was most vulnerable, and most able to step into my power.

I am reminded that when I felt like I was going to have to have this baby cut out of me because how could I keep pushing – minutes later, he was in arms.

I am reminded that when I felt like I couldn’t carry on; I closed my eyes, and felt my daughter move; and seconds later, I was lifting her out the water onto my chest.

I am reminded that when I felt like I was being split in half, I moved my body, and screamed a primal, powerful sound to bring my youngest baby earthside.

I was supported in each of these moments. I was held. I was safe. But nobody could do it for me.

Last year, when I felt like I wanted to die; that primal, powerful part of me lifted her head in defiance. She knew. I’m learning. Nobody is going to live the life I want – except me.

I am enough.

I am more than enough.

I am a warrior goddess – and from the darkest moments of my motherhood; I have stepped into the lightest.

My word for 2022 was compassion.

For 2023 I am choosing more than 1. The words we surround ourselves with, after all, are ones we begin to embody.

My words for 2023 are: Joy, Intention, Power and Abundance.

If you haven’t got a word/words for next year, I invite you to set them.

If you’ve read these words today; I appreciate your time.

With love

Xox

R

* Featured Image for the post was taken by Gaby Sweet Photography, based in Devon; whom I highly recommend. She’s a beautiful human and has a gift for capturing moments of magic.