Tag Archives: vocation

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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Identity, Perspective

Holy Smokes

I was going to say something along the lines of “Holy Therapy Session, Batman!” but this has nothing to do with male superheroes. This is all about the ladies.

The innate power of women.

The smoke is from the top of my head blowing off, my mind exploding. The holy vespers of the spirit swirling around the space.

When something is known with surety, a warmth spreads from your chest, across your shoulder blades, up your neck into a tingling of the scalp. Water rises and pools along the cusp of lashes, glazing the eye in a softened yet magnified lens. The heart swells and throws the arms outward, seeking the embrace – of an idea or confidant or both.

Searching all one’s life for the fiat; once found, the yes is effortless.

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anxiety, Identity

Back to Nightmares

I taught for seven years seven years ago.

I still have back-to-school nightmares.

It’s the first day of school.  My new charges have entered the room, sitting wherever they want, class begins and they won’t stop talking.  I try all the little tricks in my arsenal.  Waiting silently in the front of the room, a glaring sentinel.  Looking at the clock.  Greeting them in my let’s-get-to-business tone.  Finally resorting to screaming at the top of my lungs while the party continues and I go red in the face.

What kind of year will this be if I can’t make them quiet down in the first minutes?

Now, I have this dream randomly whenever I’m experiencing a stressful time or approaching any event or new beginning with anxiety.  Seven years out and this is still my psyche’s go-to when it needs an exemplar of anxiety.

Last night, though, it changed.  I’m sure I had some flavor of the back-to-school dream because I’m anticipating my daughters’ return to school next week (any nerves they might have with the unknown of a new year and my own worries about the onslaught of morning rushes, homework duty, adhering to schedules).  And the start of my baby’s preschool, which I suddenly was wracked with guilt for last night (i.e. Shouldn’t I just keep her home with me?).  But it was different.  Decidedly so.

I’d gone to a school event with a colleague with whom I still keep in touch regularly.  Groups of kids ranged around a large space, seated at tables with staff interspersed.  They seemed to be grouped by their team designations.  The main event was food.  It was some sort of eating contest, as in who could eat the fastest or the most or something like that.  I bounced from table to table with no real spot to land.  At one point, I found myself in front of a turkey dinner, but quickly abandoned that when I found not one, but four consecutive strands of hair in it.  I asked if I got extra points for eating the hair.  Yes, this is the point at which I got increasingly snarky.

My former colleagues kibitzed together or mixed with their students in a way I could not as I no longer belonged to that club.  I didn’t know the students; I didn’t know the ins and outs of their day or of the school building at large.  I was no longer privy to the culture of the school and tenor of its staff.

I ended up extremely cranky and ornery, off to the side by myself under a tree.  Yes, the setting had morphed outside.  And the game had changed.  Apparently now it was some sort of role-playing game.  And I got to watch as my husband mock-proposed to another woman.

My psyche just threw me under the bus!  It went for the insecure jugular of losing connections, people I care for and who care for me.  My close ties.  My sense of belonging and acceptance.

It was no mistake that my subconscious served up this dream on the eve of another school year.  As my career and profession, teaching was (and still is) a large part of my identity.  At a time when structure is supposed to ramp up, I float listless.  Yes, mothering is a vocation.  But my charges are headed off to something other than them and me while I sit at home.

I need to find something new on the menu – other than hairy turkey dinner.

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