IDENTITY: A Motherhood Essay Series

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The Ocean: Part One

Just starting felt like the hardest part for so long—start cleaning, start organizing, start planning, start working, start trying again. But doing is just as hard. So how do you motivate yourself to keep going when every part of it is hard?

Can we really Nike Swoosh our way out of this one?

Most days I feel like I’m floating in an ocean of thoughts. Just a passenger. The tiniest speck of life riding the swells. When there’s no land around you, how do you know which way to swim? Do you even bother swimming?

I learned more about myself in the last five years than my entire pre-pandemic life combined.

And not on purpose.

I'm not the same version of me that you knew. We don't have anything in common anymore. Stop holding onto me. I can't let you go any harder.

How do you tell people that when they finally meet you again?

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What’s the difference between an excuse and an explanation?

Because getting that ADHD diagnosis at 35 was revolutionary. That first dose of Vyvanse was my red pill from Morpheus.

Waking up to the reality of my own brain was one thing. All of the dominos falling into place around it was another beast entirely.

Imagine advocating for yourself to get diagnosed BEFORE learning that:
▶ Your mom is already diagnosed and medicated
▶ ADHD has such a strong hereditary component that there’s a 91% chance of passing it onto your child [source]
▶ Your elementary school wanted to test you, but your dad thought they were lying to get money from the government

It's all just stories we tell ourselves anyway, right? Is the story you only tell yourself more important than the one you tell everyone else?

Is two stories somehow less exhausting?

Is that a problem with the world, or with me?

When my mental health tanked postpartum, I tried to find help. My best friend constantly texted to see how I was.

I still cry during my weekly shower.

Did I ever find my way back to who I was before?
Which parts of myself did I want to find again?
Did I cry every day because I wanted attention?
If I wanted attention, why did I hide what was happening to me?

For an entire year I searched for the intersection of the holy trinity—
a maternal mental health counselor
who was in my healthcare network
who was accepting new patients

I saw that incredible therapist for—has it really been that long since I last saw her?—six months in 2022.

Six months that changed me as much as postpartum depression and anxiety had.
Six months that had me cut open every scarred-over wound, to bleed out on that high-traffic carpet.
Six months that cracked open the door to the next version of myself.

One who smiled. One who sang. One who was fine.

But fine wasn't who I needed to be. I needed to tear myself to shreds to find the version who could show up everyday for myself, not just my family.

I'm still searching.