019. Back to School Reflections that Go Back to Postpartum

As we make some big new transitions, a random memory that surfaced for me from my postpartum depression days

Hi friends! I know it’s been a slow summer for the newsletter, but I’m trying to get back into writing again. With “real” school just around the corner for my child, I’ve been having some mixed feelings come up. Pride, excitement, anticipatory anxiety to name a few…and then I actually have this one random memory that stands out to me during one of those darker postpartum depression days that I’ve been recalling again lately. I’m not even sure I’ve told my husband about this moment before.

These milestone moments have a way of making me reflect on the journey, and it’s interesting that this particular memory has been standing out. But I think it will make more sense when I recount it. I also figured it’s kind of nice write it down because I might want to write a book one day, and these details may very well surface again!

So here goes…

Photo by Tom Claes on Unsplash

I was sitting in the waiting room waiting to see a physical therapist.

Some of you may recall that I developed some bad ulnar nerve damage to both of my hands a few weeks into postpartum from holding breastfeeding positions too long. To simplify, the ulnar nerve is a little like the inverse of the carpal tunnel with pain/numbness on the pinky side. And just like when I was referred to see a psychologist, I was dubious about physical therapy. This was also my very first time seeing a physical therapist in my life.

It felt like I was just being tossed through a kitchen sink of the healthcare system, trying to patchwork fix all these broken parts of me—physically and mentally. Were they really going to help me regain feeling and strength in my arms and hands again? *Cue raised eyebrow*

Some of my depression was definitely worsened by physical pain and ailments along with that nasty mental spiral of projecting that I would be disabled forever, that I wouldn’t be able to work again, that I wouldn’t be able to carry my baby again. And yet…

As I was sitting there in the waiting room away from my husband and newborn baby, alone and almost on a “break” in a medical office, I felt relieved to be away for a hot moment. The relief was ever so brief before the brew of anxiety and irrational guilt that I was away from them took over again.

But while I nervously took my seat, I saw another mom next to me with a smiley baby bouncing in her lap, grinning and cooing at the strangers in the office, winning everyone over. (Note: This was pre-pandemic.)

I have a sweet little baby too, I thought, dejectedly. But no one would ever know it just by looking at me now.

And then that shame sank its teeth into me with a sick bite, as I thought, Wow, how is this mom able to bring her baby along with her to a physical therapy appointment?! Up until that point, I had never even given my child a bath before on my own, let alone leave the house with her. I felt so behind, like I was failing at this motherhood thing. Her baby looked so calm, and I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take for my baby to be able to sit up like this and happily come along for errands.

Photo by Yuri Shirota on Unsplash

I stared in admiration, bewilderment, and curiosity. And before I knew what was happening, I blurted out to her, “How old is your baby?” She smiled and said, “5 months.”

Wow. My baby was barely 5 weeks old. Then I felt this twisting feeling in my stomach as I thought these next thoughts. Could I even make it to 5 months? Could we just skip to 5 months? Maybe this would all be easier when my baby was 5 months? Or maybe not for me. Maybe *I* just wasn’t cut out for this. But boy, do I wish my baby were at her baby’s stage right now. I bet she’s sleeping more at this point. She seems so calm and happy and like she’s got it together—

Immediately, I felt guilty for wanting to skip over this phase when they tell you that you need to enjoy every minute. I felt ashamed for wanting my baby to be like hers for a split second. How dare I! The ping pong of emotions in my head and self-berating was insufferable.

I wanted to ask her all these probing questions like, “Does your baby sleep better now? Do YOU sleep better now? Does it get easier? How is your baby so calm? Where’s your husband? How are you doing this alone? Are you still breastfeeding? What are you here for?”

She got called up to go to her appointment, and I obviously was never going to ask all those intrusive questions to a random stranger. But I sat in puddle of awe and shame as I waited for my physical therapist, stuck in a mind trap of wishing I could fast forward my life to the “good part” or rewind it back to before I had a child and really reconsider if I could be a mom.

***

And now here we are. 5 years later.

I think I’ve been recalling that day at the physical therapist’s office because it seems almost unbelievable that I’m this far out from that day where I wished my baby were not a baby. Again, I still feel a little bit of shame that I thought that way, but I also realize on this side that I was battling a depression that had taken over me at the time. And now, what I wouldn’t do to have a day where I could revisit my baby at 5 weeks old again without the lens of depression… Now she is a full-fledged little person who is independent with her own opinions and about to start school. She is an amazing human being I’m so lucky to raise.

Photo by Jerry Wang on Unsplash

If it feels like I’m always going through these moments of disbelief, that’s because I really am. I am constantly wondering how this is my life right now, how I deserve to be here right now. (Can someone please tell me if this is a trauma response?)

I’m in awe that we made it here.

There’s this bittersweet contradiction of wanting to speed things up to the “good parts” but simultaneously wanting it to slow down because it kind of only gets more complicated too. People keep asking me if I’m ready for her to start school; surprisingly, I’m not as teary as I thought I would be at this transition, mostly because I know she is ready.

What I’m not ready for is the reality that as she gets older and as she is influenced by more of the world around her, I am not as able to protect her from everything like I could when she was in my womb. This lessening of control is what gives me more anxiety than anything else. At the same time, I tell myself that eventually my job is to prepare her to face the world without me and she needs to take baby steps toward more independence.

As we start a new chapter and there’s so many new transitions to navigate, I remind myself that it will be okay, even if there’s so much unknown and even if there’s a lot that I’m nervous about. It’s normal to want to be in control and know where I’m going, but I’m trying to embrace the flow more because this isn’t just about where I want to go anymore—it’s also about her individual stream and where it’s destined to go.

Photo by Noah Clark on Unsplash

I wish I could go back and tell myself from 5 years ago in that waiting room that it would turn out to be okay. The postpartum depression made me feel so hopeless and useless that I couldn’t fathom even making it to 5 months, let alone 5 years. But here we are. So I hope maybe sharing this reflection can help someone who is struggling out there to cling onto a ray of hope that they too will make it through whatever hard season they are in right now.

Another thing to remember is that we really cannot compare our journey with someone else’s. When I think back on this now, I want to tell the me from 5 years ago that what I saw from that mom in the waiting room was only a single snapshot of a moment in her life, but I had no clue what hardships she went through to get there. That even though that moment may have looked perfect to me and made me wish for a fast forward, there was no guarantee our lives would look anything similar, nor should that be my wish.

Everyone’s journey is unique, each high and each low purposefully shaping the landscape of our lives.

And as for my arms? They also healed in due time. But, plot twist, it actually wasn’t healed through going to physical therapy. The point is—it’s going to be okay. :]