I feel myself slipping. I’m tumbling into the shadowy depths of my thoughts, now cruelly amplified by the looming, harsh Canadian winter staring at me through the window. As my three lively sons whirl around me, I remind myself to be grateful. I should push down the growing sadness that envelops me, for I have a wonderful partner, three children, and a fulfilling career. I quiet my inner voice because, after all, I have healthy kids and what looks like a perfect family from the outside.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
My journey into motherhood was generally smooth, save for a miscarriage that preceded my two successful pregnancies. I remember the stark reality of the ultrasound room—the cold, hard bed confirming what I already feared. I had lost my baby. In a cruel twist of fate, the joyful image of another couple’s pregnancy scan was still displayed on the screen as I sat there, my empty womb feeling even more desolate. A few months later, I became pregnant with my eldest son, and just over two years after that, I welcomed twin boys.
“Be thankful for your life,” I remind myself.
My mother was a resilient woman who raised three children with a husband who was largely absent. When she left him, he told her she’d never make it. He was wrong.
I feel like it’s a rite of passage for an immigrant mother to arrive in this country without family support and scant financial resources, yet still manage to create a successful life for her children. The extent of her sacrifice is rarely discussed, and mental health issues often remain invisible.
Why is this so difficult for me?
Parenting during a pandemic has left me desperately clinging to fragments of my former self. Texting and video chatting provide some connection, but nothing compares to the warmth of physical interactions. Being cooped up in a house with three boys and lacking a supportive community has left me feeling shattered.
I’m expected to have it all together.
I will soon return to work, and this is my lifeline—my socially distanced, mask-wearing escape as I leave my children to teach others. Stepping back into my profession is a chance to reclaim some of my previous identity.
But the sands are shifting beneath me.
I won’t be there to see my twins’ toothy grins and the budding conversations they are beginning to share. Their personalities are blossoming as they interact, and while their older brother wants to engage with them, he can be too rough at times. The subtle details of their growth slip through my fingers like grains of sand.
I will miss these moments.
One day, I aspire to be the mother warrior who shares my experiences with overwhelmed moms, offering to hold their babies so they can take the much-needed breaks I wished for during my darkest days.
My time will come.