February two thousand eighteen
Every now and then, I get a comment or a message from someone commending my parenting skills and how I make it look so easy. I’m not going to lie, it makes me feel happy, proud, and for one fleeting moment, I have this little ego boost. And then I suddenly feel a wave of shame.
It’s a façade, y’all.
I am nowhere near perfect. I don’t have it all together. In fact, I’m often looking at other women’s Instagrams and falling into the same damn trap. Her life is so perfect. Her kids are so well-behaved. She makes everything look so easy. Even though I know everyone has a tendency to just post the good stuff, I found myself comparing, which lead to feelings of inadequacy, incompetence, or simply just not being good enough. My self-loathing grew. The saying, comparison is the thief of joy, couldn’t be truer. I’ve learned—and I’m still working and learning—to just be in the moment of my life and appreciate what I have. To accept that my life is not perfect, but it’s perfectly fine. This is how I started climbing out from under to reclaim my life.
This “epiphany” did not come easy. There was so much more to my story than I was willing to share, but now I feel it’s necessary. Almost a year ago, a close friend of mine reached out to me with such a heavy heart. She was a new mom and felt like she had no clue what she was doing. She felt embarrassed and frustrated that other women just seemed to slip into the mom-role with such ease that maybe she wasn’t meant to be a mom. Somehow she felt that she can come to me and ask how I did it—how I did it all. It was the first time someone asked me this. It was the first time someone thought I knew what I was doing as a mom, at least that I was aware of.
I was shocked, and then in a moment of clarity, I knew what I had to do. I told her the truth and let her know she was not alone. I shared my own insecurities, anxiety, and every bit of unpretty that I was basically hiding from social media.
I suffered through postpartum depression and severe anxiety disorder after my first born. On the surface, I may have looked put together. In reality, I was so out of touch with myself, with others, with my son, and with my husband. I had no idea what to do or who to go to. It might sound weird, but I didn’t even start to feel a bond with my son until he was about 10 months old. I loved him, and knew I’d do anything for him, but I felt as if I wasn’t his mother. Here was this beautiful baby boy who deserved the world, and I felt like an imposter trying to be his mom. I had no flippin’ clue what I was doing. I was embarrassed, frustrated, and ashamed. I constantly thought to myself how easy motherhood looked when I went down the Pinterest and IG rabbit hole of all mom posts and pictures. Maybe I’m not meant to be a mom. (side note: social media was not the only factor of my PPD, but that’s a story for another day).
Thankfully, someone saw through my façade and encouraged me to get professional help. I feel hesitant to share this even as I’m typing because it is such taboo, especially in my culture, to seek help let alone talk about it so publicly. But it saved me. While I was getting help, I had to meet with a group of moms who were going through the same thing as me. For the first time, I didn’t feel alone. And no it’s not because “misery likes company”. To hear these other moms talk about their struggles gave me reassurance that motherhood is not easy for anyone. I’m not doing it wrong. It’s just that hard. It’s not easy nor glamorous as social media makes it to be. I was able to climb out of my depression once I started to take it one day at a time and just learn to roll with the punches. Motherhood is still stressful, but it’s also filled with unlimited snuggles, laughter, silliness, and unconditional love.
The bottom line is no one is perfect. No one gives birth and is suddenly an expert in all things mom. Truth is, we all have no flippin’ clue what we’re doing, but we are doing our best. We learn from books, from our mothers, and from each other. So please, share your story. Help a mama out and let her know that behind every perfectly curated picture is a pile of 2 week old laundry.