Why are we here? What is our purpose? How was I made?
These are some of the questions my daughter has been asking me lately. Sometimes I am caught off guard by her train of thought. She processes things quickly and makes connections that I don't always expect, and I've learned to pause before I just spit out an answer.
Most of the time, I try to keep my answers general. I talk to her about being kind to other people and treating people well. For everything else, I'm realizing that I don't always need to have an answer.
I grew up differently.
I grew up in the church, and a lot of what I understood about the world came through Bible stories and sermons. As a child, some of the imagery was difficult for me to understand. Ideas about sin, judgement and burning in hell created fear around things I wasn't old enough to fully grasp.
I learned shame. I learned fear. I became very aware of the judgement of other people, whether those eyes were actually on me or I only imagined they were.
I don't think I realized until much later how much those things affected the way I saw myself and my role in the world.
Some of those expectations followed me into adulthood, first into marriage and eventually into motherhood. There is such a soft image attached to both. A wife is loving, patient, caring and giving. A mother is nurturing and steadfast. She is always there.
And somewhere inside all of that giving, it can become incredibly easy to lose yourself.
Every household is different and every woman is different. What seems to come naturally to someone else may not come naturally to you. Sometimes we look at our mothers and grandmothers and assume we should be able to follow the same path. And when we struggle, shame can make us turn inward.
Motherhood certainly wasn't as soft as I imagined it would be.
For me, there was an almost constant anticipation of everything that could go wrong. Everyday dangers. Sickness. My daughter's physical development, her emotional development, whether I was doing the right things or making the right decisions.
And then there was postpartum depression.
I've rarely talked about that part of becoming a mother because, even now, it is uncomfortable to put into words.
I had my daughter during COVID, which was already a strange and isolating time. I was exhausted and sleep deprived. I was trying to breastfeed and struggling with it. I wasn't producing as much as I thought I should, she did better with a bottle, and I carried around this feeling that somehow I was failing at something that was supposed to come naturally.
Then I started experiencing intrusive thoughts.
Sometimes they came as flashes of images in my mind, and I remember thinking, This isn't me.
That realization was frightening, but it was also what made me realize I needed help. I was terrified to talk about what was happening in my head. Part of me worried about what admitting those thoughts could mean. Could someone think I was a danger? Could I lose my daughter?
My mother wasn't alive for me to call and ask if she had ever experienced anything like this or how she had coped.
I remembered hearing about Brooke Shields speaking publicly about experiencing intrusive thoughts after becoming a mother, so I started looking for information. I read articles and discussions from other mothers. Eventually I told my husband, crying, what had been happening.
Then I told my OB-GYN.
That began the process of getting help.
The first medication didn't work for me. Eventually I saw a psychiatrist, tried another medication and talked with a therapist over the phone. I also needed sleep and space to recover.
The medication that finally helped meant I could no longer breastfeed.
And strangely, even though breastfeeding had been so difficult for me, I had to grieve that too.
Looking back now, I wish I could sit beside that version of myself for a little while.
I wish I could tell her that she is supported and loved. That this won't last forever. That she will get through it. And maybe most importantly, that her identity won't always be framed entirely around being a mother.
Six years later, my daughter is sitting beside me asking questions about why we're here.
And I'm still figuring some of those things out myself.
The difference is that I don't feel the same urgency to give her every answer.
There is something about what we cannot see and cannot completely understand that makes the world mysterious and interesting. I want her to be able to ask questions without being afraid of the questions themselves. I want her to develop her own thoughts and know that uncertainty isn't necessarily something she has to fear.
There are things I want her to carry with her: kindness, empathy, curiosity and respect for other people.
The rest, I think, she has a lifetime to explore.
Maybe I do too.
