It’s pretty tough, motherhood, isn’t it? Even for a woman who, on the outside, looks like she’s got her shit not only together, but tied up in a gift box with a pretty bow. To quote the great philosophers of Love Island 2017, ‘on paper’, my life is perfect.
And somehow, I found myself with post-natal depression, questioning my marriage, my life choices, and my happiness. I was miserable, and whilst I didn’t doubt my love for her, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I had pangs of regret, emptiness and misery like I’d never felt before.
It’s a bit of a mind fuck to feel lonely and crave being alone at the same time. It’s more of a mind fuck to know that everything I’d achieved – personally, professionally and other – is what society tells you is absolute #lifegoals and I still wasn’t satisfied.
So, why was I miserable? Why did I need counselling and medication, just to get through the week? Why the fuck, when I had a perfect, healthy and happy little girl, a big house, a nice car, a loving family and a gorgeous husband, was I not ‘living my best life’?
I’d say I don’t know, but I do, of course I do.
Your life flips on its head when you become a mum – the world as we know it falls out through your arse (or, more anatomically, your front bum) and you become the single most important thing in the life of a vulnerable, needy and helpless little person. It’s all-encompassing, it’s suffocating and it’s relentless. And when the visitors die down and the novelty of your new addition wears off for the rest of the world, you are left holding the baby. You.
The world tells you to be eternally grateful, happy, and overjoyed with this prospect. They literally tell you that you must ‘enjoy every moment because it goes too fast’, but nobody tells you that it’s fine to grieve the pre-baby lifestyle, the banging body or the freedom to shower whenever the fuck you want. Not one person told me ‘it’s shit at times, you know?’.