In the wake of my parents’ divorce, my mother battled depression for years, leaving me feeling responsible for her pain and anxiety. I often thought there must have been something I could have done as a child to ease her burden. I want to spare my son from that same guilt, and as he approaches his third birthday, the thought of hiding my mental health from him weighs heavily on my mind. So, I’ve decided to pen a letter for him to read when he’s older.
Dear Sweet Boy,
One day, you’ll grow up and notice how I react when someone says something unkind to you. You might question why I hesitate to let you cycle to a friend’s house five miles away or why I constantly check in on your day and feelings. You may find it strange when I clean the house multiple times a week or get upset at your dad over seemingly trivial matters, like forgetting to pick up laundry detergent. You might even wonder why I tear up watching you open presents on your birthday year after year.
There may be moments when you feel embarrassed by my protectiveness, like when I confront a teacher or another parent about something they did to you that you didn’t even notice. And you could be curious why I wake up early on Saturdays to enjoy some quiet time alone before everyone else. Sometimes, I might even mix up your name with the dogs’ names or your dad’s before I get it right—my mind just races in every direction at once. There will be times you catch me staring off into space, and I hope you’ll know that I’m simply lost in thought.
As you grow older, you’ll begin to see how much I worry about saving for your future—not just for college or a wedding, but for unforeseen circumstances like illness or job loss. The anxiety that comes with uncertainty can be overwhelming. You might notice that my mood swings are sometimes sudden, and you may even connect the dots that the days I skip my little blue pill seem to coincide with those tougher moments.
If you wake up in the night and see me watching over you, please don’t be alarmed. I cherish these moments when I feel like I can protect you, fully aware of where you are and what you are doing. The world can be a scary place, filled with tragic stories of loss and harm. I never want to be the mother who has to identify her child in the worst possible circumstances. While I know the odds are low, the mere thought brings me to tears. Although it may not be normal to dwell on these fears, I have to learn to trust in God, even when I struggle to trust others.
Every night, I thank God for blessing me with you, praying for the strength to be the mother you deserve. I love you deeply, sometimes even in ways that might frustrate or annoy you. I worry that my bipolar depression might sometimes lead me to lose my temper or snap at your dad over minor issues. Paranoia can grip me tightly, and I might become overly fixated on having a tidy home, thinking that order will bring me peace, which could cause me to miss important moments when you need my attention.
Whenever you retreat into your own world, feeling confused and believing you’ve upset me, please remember that it’s not about you. Nothing you do could ever lessen my love for you. Moms think in complex ways, often overwhelmed by the fierce bond formed even before birth. Some mothers face additional challenges and must work hard to balance their emotions with sound judgment. If my actions ever lead you to feel shame or sadness, please understand—it’s not you; it’s me.
You are perfect just as you are. I am the one who may sometimes be caught in a whirlwind of paranoia, fear, mood swings, and anxiety. My hope is to practice self-control daily, striving to be the most loving and reasonable mom that God allows me to be. I apologize in advance for the days when I falter, and I ask you to remember: it’s not you; it’s me.