It was a typical afternoon at the grocery store, where I found myself navigating the aisles with my 7-week-old baby. This little one was my third, and I felt I should’ve had it all figured out by now. Clad in yoga pants and a messy bun, I carried the weight of exhaustion like a heavy cloak. My heart was a mix of nostalgia and immense love; I often reminisced about life with just two kids, yet I adored this new addition with all my being.
However, expressing such feelings felt taboo. I was acutely aware of the blues that loomed over me, making it hard to breathe. My “mom face” likely would’ve sent anyone in my direction running for the hills, but the truth is, most people were too busy cooing at the tiny bundle I held. All they saw was the baby.
Strangers would approach, eager to ask how my little one was doing, commenting on his cuteness and telling me to cherish these fleeting moments. Yet every so often, someone would remember to ask about me—the one who had just given birth, the one responsible for that adorable bundle. Typically, I’d respond with a quick “fine,” knowing that’s what was expected.
So, on that particular day, as I pushed my cart down the frozen food aisle, a woman with glasses and salt-and-pepper curls approached. “Can I see your baby?” she asked, and I was ready for my performance. I was prepared to share the joy of motherhood, buoyed by the notion that as a seasoned mom of three, I had it all under control. How could I feel anything but bliss?
But the truth was far from it. I was overwhelmed and struggling with emotions that felt foreign. Nobody had warned me about this reality. No one had said, “It’s okay not to feel fine.”
When she inquired about my well-being, I opted for the easy way out. “Oh, I’m fine. He’s my third, so you know…” I followed the script I thought was expected of me—after all, who wants to admit that they’re not okay? Instead of voicing my struggles, I felt the urge to hide behind a facade of normalcy.
Then, she paused my cart, looking straight into my eyes. “How are you really doing?” she asked. “I had five kids, and I fell apart after my third.”
“Honestly? It still hurts to sit down, and he never sleeps. Everyone said it would be easier, but he’s tougher than my first two combined,” I confessed, surprised at my own honesty.
She held my gaze and replied, “You know, it’s okay to not be fine. You can tell people you’re not okay and ask for help.”
As I struggled with the idea of asking for assistance, she gave me a reality check. “You don’t have to ask for help if you don’t want to. But you can keep suffering alone. That’s an option, too.”
Her straightforwardness was refreshing. She didn’t sugarcoat it or offer empty platitudes. Instead, she allowed me to be real, and we shared a genuine connection in that moment.
After our conversation, I grabbed both rocky road and peanut butter cup ice cream, feeling a little lighter. I realized it was perfectly acceptable not to be “fine” and that I wasn’t alone in my struggles. I understood that I could either bottle up my feelings or seek support, which included discussing my challenges with my doctor and prioritizing self-compassion.
Since that day, I’ve made it my mission to remind all mothers to be gentle with themselves when things feel overwhelming. Adjusting to life with a new child, regardless of whether it’s your first or fifth, can be a monumental shift. Embracing this reality and lowering our expectations can lead to a healthier mindset.
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Summary:
After the birth of my third child, I learned the importance of being gentle with myself. A chance encounter in a grocery store led to an enlightening conversation, reminding me that it’s okay to admit when things are tough. Embracing vulnerability and seeking help can lead to a healthier mindset during the challenging journey of motherhood.