This picture of me holding Ila on what would be her first Halloween brings back so many postpartum memories. Ruth was just shy of her first birthday and newly walking, while Ila was two weeks away from exclusively formula feeding as the end of my six week maternity leave from the bank drew near. As if that last sentence wasn’t enough to fill me with all of the feelings, I was drowning in Postpartum Depression and Anxiety. I hazily remember waking up from my barely there slumber in full on panic, clutching Ila and hyperventilating while sobbing on a regular basis. Fortunately for me, I had an amazing partner in Brian and he took care of Ruth for Ila’s first year of life. Without his love and kindness I truly do not think I would be here today. Believe me when I tell you that I can only remember bits and pieces of that first year with our precious little middle because of my chronic disassociation. Sifting through pictures from this time period of our lives only slightly registers my initial moments with our daughter who I was absolutely terrified of losing even though she was beside me for much of the time.

The narrative that echoed through my mind that first year of parenting two children under two centers on one word…

Failure. Because I cannot stop crying.

Failure. Because I am a terrible mother.

Failure. Because I will never be enough.

What I failed to recognize at the time was that though I had parented a child successfully during her first 11 months of life, my physiology had not changed much since we had adopted her. The body, mind, and soul changes which occurred during my time growing Ila while simultaneously raising Ruth were different, and they are different from child to child regardless of how they come into this world. After some gentle encouragement from my family, I remember going to a therapist for a few months shortly after Ila was born. She was wonderful, but I couldn’t afford to keep up on my payments to her practice, so I stopped going when I needed her most.

By the grace of God and the people who love me, I am still here today. Fortunately, months later after my first round of therapy, I found a therapist whom I still see. While I still had to pay him, it wasn’t nearly as much as my former therapist, and I was at the point where I began prioritizing my mental health regardless of the cost. I had no idea the extent of my trauma and that I had been suffering from a clinical case of anxiety and depression for much of my life.

If I could go back and talk to Tone in 2014 I would hold her hand and let her know that it is okay to feel everything she is feeling. I would tell her that years from now she will understand that it is a miracle that her body was able to reproduce and carry children to term. I would tell her that it was not her fault that her daughter was born at a low birth weight, it’s just that her (my) body cannot properly make a velamentous cord and placenta. I would tell her she was brave for mothering when her mother wound loomed largely in her peripheral without her knowing in her mind how truly monstrous and all encompassing it was.

When I look at this last photo, I remember this moment so vividly. It’s when Ila came into the world. Before I knew how much she weighed. Before it sunk in that they had given me an episiotomy. Before I knew how hard juggling two kids was going to be. The pure joy on my face and the love in my heart still makes me swoon. I cling to moments like this even now, and I am grateful that I have lived long enough to reflect upon them. The nine year old she is now is something I am beyond grateful to not have missed out on.

To all mothers out there, please know you are never alone, and that you are worthy of love–from God, from others, and from yourself. The invisible weight we carry is too much to bear alone. Let’s continue to bear it with one another.