“All of us must make our own way, exploring some of the most universally shared experiences while also navigating a solitude that makes us feel as if we are the first to set foot in uncharted regions.” – Brené Brown, Rising Strong.
I’m pictured here with my son, at the beach on a family holiday.
Don’t be fooled - at this point in time motherhood looked like a big, dark, looming wave that was about to engulf me. Unlike other holidays, there was barely any planning for this trip.
I’d phoned my staff just a couple of days prior and explained I needed to take a break, immediately. I took two weeks off work and cautiously started to take antidepressants for postnatal depression.
This is a photo of me on the brink of wondering who on earth I was, feeling completely disconnected, and scared shitless that I was totally disintegrating on the inside.
In the nervous lead-up to my son’s due date I drew strength and courage from reminding myself (and being reminded by many others), that the countless women who’d given birth before me meant that I’d be able to do it too; that the countless women who’d successfully breastfed/ nurtured/ soothed/ clothed/ bathed/ sheltered/ loved unconditionally/ counselled/ lead/ consoled/ raised their well-adjusted children before me meant that I could do it too.
Yet there were many times I felt completely alone and very much out of my depth. Oh, the overwhelm that a cute and cuddly baby can generate.
I recently received a message from a mother who suggested that some of the “bad stories” shared by my project Little Tsunami might scare off other mums, and that showing both sides of the motherhood coin could be a better approach.
My concern is – particularly for first pregnancies and births – that the polite code of silence surrounding what should and should not be shared with expectant mums does not benefit and support them in the long run.