Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile

Poetry

Upbraided

I see a couple through the plate glass windows of a social hall on the bottom level of a dorm.

She is combing and braiding the hair at the back of his neck, 
her fingers working through a small section of it.

Though their eyes don’t meet, 
they are connected by this intimate act

And I want to cry

For their bond 	
	
	and bonds broken, 

For the simple 
	
	when things have gotten so complicated,

For the trust inherent in the running of fingers through one’s hair – 

and the pain in knowing someone else is doing it
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Mental Health, Recovery

Reprogramming

Reframe

Rewire

Retrain

I’m completely convinced that if I talk through an issue or situation thoroughly with a trusted individual or take the time to sit and write it out, I will arrive at the problem or underlying emotion at its core.

Not because I’m a genius. But because I know myself well.

Both my interior movings and motivations and my ability to let the hectic pace of life pull me right along with it, blurring the signposts along the way.

If I moved slower or stopped more frequently, I would see the patterns of programming peeking through. I would be alert to the where and why-for of my feelings, thoughts, and actions. I would be able to stop at the head of a trail instead of barreling straight down it. I could course correct before the wheels locked into the well-rutted tracks.

Having such an epiphany when talking to my therapist today, I put my folded hands to my forehead and sighed, “Ugh, reprogramming is so hard.”

She started tapping her forehead, as if pressing a button with a beep to stop a function, saying, “Yes, I am worthy, I am loved, I can change my conditioning.”

For that’s what it is: social conditioning, programming – call it what you will. It is the patterns our mind has learned and practiced that we think are gospel simply because they are so well traveled.

We can change the paradigm.

We can force reboot, restart, turn off then on again –

and start fresh.

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mother vs self, Uncategorized, Write to Heal

How Did We Get Here?

In 2012, I began this blog as an exploration of my experience with postpartum depression. I wasn’t doing it to publicly rehash all the difficult details; I was hoping that in sharing my story, women who had been to the deepest depths that I had wouldn’t feel so hopelessly alone. And I did find others. They found me. I’ve forged some amazing friendships through the wonders of the web.

In the first part of 2015, I embarked on a new leg of the journey. My research began in earnest, collecting evidence of pre- and postnatal care and experiences, outcomes and interventions – all through the lens of maternal mental health. I completed Postpartum Support International’s Perinatal Social Support Webinar Series. In July, I attended Postpartum Progress’ Warrior Mom Conference in Boston, the first ever large-scale gathering of survivors of perinatal mood and anxiety disorders.

I was poised to bring my advocacy to a new level.

I sent my ‘baby’ off to kindergarten – and a month later, got pregnant.

Truly, she was the pleasantest surprise.

My past experiences armed me with a proactivity I hadn’t had in previous pregnancies. And I see now that my knowledge and experience have deepened in the intervening time to enrich my advocacy even more.

Still, even with my depression ‘managed’, motherhood was challenging. And not in a growth mindset sort of way; in a soul-sucking, all-encompassing sort of way. I realized that mothers needed support whether they were suffering from a mental illness or not. Untenable conditions with no support could mean a tip into mental illness. And even if it didn’t, what of a mother’s mental wellness?

With writing being such a cathartic and expanding experience for myself, I sought ways to share it with others. How could I use journalling prompts, easily accessible and customizable to anyone – even if they weren’t in love with writing like I was, to aid women in their journey to authentic and fulfilling mother- and personhood?

In a synthesis of my writing, experience as an educator, and lived-in motherhood, the idea of a workshop was born. A chance for women to share their experiences in a community of empathetic peers and to explore their own personal questions, fears, joys, and challenges through writing. A release and a way forward.

I knew I wanted to offer the inaugural in-person workshops in the month of May, to coincide with Mothers’ Day – not to commemorate that holiday, but to give mothers an alternative celebration of themselves in a world that often lets them down. This finally happened in May 2023. I gave three workshops in three different locations in my surrounding area. But that only served those within driving distance. Readers and supporters reached out to me from other states, even Canada, suggesting a virtual option.

Nothing can replace in-person dialogue and the energy of community and I am no Zoom-inista – but the subscription series was born. I tried to translate the thought and writing prompts into weekly sessions across a monthly theme.

I endeavor to make this a virtual community, even if the gathering place may initially be in the comments section of each weekly module. With the dream of gathering us all in a center of our own someday. A center dedicated not only to the worthy and fulfilling vocation of motherhood – but to the sacredness of our individual personhoods as well.

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Write to Heal, Writing

Ain’t Nobody Got Time for . . .

A small kelly green hardbound book with a gold embossed border and square locking mechanism.

Even then, in the dire days of second grade, I failed to fill in the daily pages.

Perhaps the slot at the top of each page to fill in the date was where my ongoing cycle of expectation/failure/guilt got its perfectionist start. If only there were simply blank pages with no open forward slashes for month/day/year, maybe then I would’ve been free to record my thoughts as I wished, order them as needed.

But it was only this summer that it took me two entire days to write one entry in my journal. Now the pages were wide open, but my days were not. The stream of thoughts were interrupted when sports practice actually ended on time one evening and completed in fits and starts when swim lessons turned into extended splashing in the shallows. As parents beckoned with outstretched towels, I began to stir from my chair. But my little leapfrog still happily skidded her hands across the surface of the water even as her classmates began to leave. And her older sisters were likely still snoozing. So why not let her play a while longer and finish my thoughts?

Staying seated in that chair strained every productive perfect bone in my body.

Will another mom see me with my head down and judge me as putting my child in danger? (I looked up every few words and rose from time to time to make eye contact with her) Should I go home and check on her sisters? (I’d texted and only one had risen and started to think about breakfast) What laundry/dishes/errands need to be completed next? (The list was never-ending and would still be there when I got home)

Why did letting my child extend her playtime in the outdoors feel like a bad choice?

Because, in this instance, it meant that I got to fill the lines on my pages and my cup. Because in a daily schedule/vocation/lifestyle (ie motherhood) that society orders as self-less, it seems self-ish to take a few minutes for oneself. On a perpetual treadmill, it seems wasteful to sit and stare into space.

But just as it did my daughter well to soak up some sunshine and wonder in the lapping water, it did me well to off-load some thoughts and feelings onto the page, synthesize others, and start with a clean slate.

In that instant I couldn’t change the tempo of my life, I couldn’t create time, but I chose to step out it. I chose to do something that would allow a refreshed me to step back in.

And we all have that choice.

Whether we draw, doodle, sketch; list, pen lengthy diatribes, or long poems; write letters to someone with whom we’re angry, our younger or future self; discover truths buried deep in our hearts or a simply profound recognition – journalling is whatever we make of it and accessible to us all.

All it takes is a piece of paper, something to write with, and a willingness to be open.

This may be the exact diary I had! Minus the kelly green and drugstore sticker!
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Weekend Write-Off, Writing

One Pizza at a Time

Usually I use Weekend Write-off posts as a place to share an update on my own writing, thoughts on process, or an excerpt from the book on my bedside table, but today I am excited to feature a young writer with a wise outlook. Sometimes it takes the eyes of a child to put things in perspective.

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motherhood

Anger is an Easier Emotion

I just sent my first born to college. 

It went surprisingly well. 

That may be because I am as good at denial as she is. 

In the weeks leading up to go-time, there were details to attend to, failed fill-ins re her often late-night plans to yell about, dorm accoutrements to pack.  The day before and day of move-in, it was all hands on deck, shuttling things downstairs, out the door, and onto the roof of the car. 

Even on campus, it was fine, fun even.  Setting up a fresh new space.  Her younger sisters scouring the bookstore for swag. 

Then it was time to say goodbye. 

Her face shifted as rapidly as her eyes did when I suggested she walk us out.  Her eyes stayed steady on us as we crossed the pedestrian bridge, each of us turning and waving every few steps.  But as we walked parallel to the drainage ditch between us, her eyes went to her phone as I looked one last time. 

I knew she was trying to focus on something other than the tears in her eyes.  I knew she was trying to ‘act normal’ as she moved past the others buzzing around the dorm entrance.  I didn’t bother trying to act normal as I trailed along behind the remains of my troop.  I stubbornly willed my next two oldest to stop peeking backward glances to gauge mom’s reaction.  I angrily cursed the still-smiling parents who stole a glance as they moved past us in the opposite direction. 

The ride home was empty.  All of us spent.  In every sense.  The youngest’s feelings coming out as rage when she couldn’t hold the box of cheesy marine-life I’d brought for fortification. 

That first week, her father and I endured many unreturned texts.  We had dire questions about logistics and deadlines.  She had a ‘tude when I called her on it during a video chat.  But at the end of the week, she admitted that maybe she didn’t want to talk because it would remind her how much she missed us. 

I had wondered if that was the case.  I wasn’t trying to make myself feel better; I was actually able to apply some psychology to this very personal experience.  Because I’d already applied anger. 

How can she just ignore our texts?  She’s talked to her sisters, why can’t she respond to us?  We need to know she’s submitted that very important thing.

When we finally came to some sort of consensus at the end of that week, I balanced my managerial texts with silly mom ones.  And she called me for a question about laundry settings, but continued to talk well after she’d received her answer. 

While the overwrought laundry fairy in me was incredulous at her query, the part of me that missed her terribly was tweaked.  She still needed me.  She needed to talk out the goings-on of her new weird days and perhaps get a little encouragement.  But how did I support her without giving unwarranted advice?  How would I validate her struggles without making her dwell on them?  I certainly didn’t want to dismiss them. 

We talked and laughed and I felt ever more acutely the shift into a new sort of relationship.  One I’d had glimpses of, interactions with, but felt more solidly on this side of it with her on the other end of a line stretched farther than it ever had yet. 

And it scared me to hear my mother in my voice, in my responses.  The gentle way she listened to my adult woes, the unrequited caregiving brimming in her intonation, the help she wanted to give but knew wasn’t her path to tread. 

My heart ached at the way I’d inadvertently pushed her away because I now knew it was my turn.  In the long chain of mother and daughter stretching backward, that phone call that started with a question about colors and whites added a link going forward.  And even though I knew it was time, I didn’t want it forged.  Somewhere between denial, anger, and acquiescence, it had happened without my realizing. 

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