Have you ever pondered how your children will reflect on their memories of you as they grow older? When the long days spent managing squabbles and denying yet another snack fade into the past? When those brief moments of solitude between their bedtime and yours feel less urgent, stripped of the need to cherish them?
I have. I envision my two sons as adults, revisiting their childhood through different perspectives, much like my siblings and I do. I imagine them as men, still chuckling about trivial arguments from years gone by—arguments that had no resolution, unlike their childhood when sharing a room was a necessity due to my single-parent status and the challenge of affording enough space for each of us.
Yet, during particularly tough times—days, weeks, or even months—I worry: will they remember me as a sad mother?
Depression has been a part of my life for as long as I can recall. The moment I discovered I was pregnant eight years ago, my struggle intensified, swelling like a balloon that no needle could pop, no medication could deflate. I remember feeling as if I were suffocating, and the thought of reliving that experience makes my heart race, haunted by the fear of being overwhelmed once more.
Some weeks are better than others, and I strive to savor those brighter moments, just as I try to now. Engaging with family and friends, which is often encouraged, has sometimes left me feeling frustrated at their inability to grasp my experience. After numerous days of my mother texting to check on me, I finally broke down, confessing, “No, I’m not okay; I’m in my car crying because this sadness has lingered for weeks. I dread waking up each morning, with relief only coming when I’m finally alone and can return to sleep.”
Although my mother means well, she struggles to understand depression, having never experienced it herself. Her suggestions, while kind, often miss the mark, as she reassures me that it will pass, not realizing that the shadows don’t simply dissipate like a fleeting bad day. Instead, they leave behind a tangled mess that I must confront.
She reminds me that I need to be healthy for my children, but the reality is more complex. When the darkness lifts, the light is often tainted by the weight of everything I may have messed up. The burdens of getting back up can feel insurmountable, and I know that the specter of depression may return again.
Yet, it’s comforting to know that someone cares, even if they don’t fully understand. When I finally explained to my mother that my struggles couldn’t be resolved with sheer will, she began to comprehend my situation better.
Even when it’s difficult to express what you’re feeling, I urge you to do so. Don’t be like I was—someone who masked her struggles with humor, joking about how my kids drove me “crazy” or how I needed a glass of wine. What I truly needed was the courage to articulate my feelings and their depth.
I worry that my struggles with depression have left a negative imprint on my children. Will my eight-year-old recall that my naps were not simply due to exhaustion from work, but rather a longing to escape? Will he remember the fear etched on his face during my rough patches, particularly when I moved apartments alone, confronted by my breaking point and the anger that accompanied my depression?
What can we do as mothers when we feel just broken enough to hesitate reaching out for help, yet on the brink of shattering into pieces? Scared of not being the joyful, engaging mom our kids deserve—the one who plays, laughs, and brings characters to life in their stories?
Don’t wait until you’re wishing for sleep to escape your life or awake wishing you could disappear. Speak to someone about your feelings. They may suggest self-care, which can feel nearly impossible during tough times—especially for those of us who struggled with self-care even before becoming parents. But allow them the chance to listen, and give yourself the opportunity to express and heal.
If I could turn back time, I would embrace a more truthful outlook, admitting how tired, isolated, and lost I felt instead of putting on a brave face. If you still have the opportunity to reach out—whether to a friend, a doctor, or a community—do so. You can find your way back to your authentic self while simultaneously building your new identity as a mother.
Throughout these past eight years, I hope I concealed my struggles well enough that my children remember the joyful moments we shared and the traditions we established. I want them to understand depression not just as a concept, but through the lens of my experiences and conversations. The darkness may have shown itself, but I hope my courage amid adversity shines brightly in their memories. They were my motivation, my reason to strive for happiness.
Summary
This piece explores the author’s reflections on how her children will remember her, particularly in light of her struggles with depression. It emphasizes the importance of communication, seeking help, and the impact of mental health on parenting. The author expresses hope that despite her struggles, her children will focus on the positive memories and the lessons learned about resilience.