Today was particularly challenging. My anxiety levels soared, and the whispers of depression filled my mind with negativity, casting a shadow over my spirit. I found myself irritable and difficult to be around, which only added to my gloom. By the late afternoon, exhaustion and sadness weighed me down.
After picking up my eldest son from a birthday party, he dashed across the field to join his siblings and other parent. I remained at home, starting dinner, craving a hug from him but not expressing that need. He was joyful, running off while I felt like I was stuck in a fog of unhappiness.
As I watched him go, I felt a strong urge to run to him, to embrace him and apologize for my crankiness. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was for my mood, but I realized he didn’t see my sadness. He’s almost eight years old and has never seen me cry. Our past conversations indicate he associates tears with sadness.
My younger twins, just five, have also never witnessed my tears. Until recently, I could count the occasions I had cried—four times since my eldest’s birth. Those moments included the days my children arrived, one incident during the 2016 Summer Olympics, and another when my twins were just a year old.
At that time, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom to my twins, feeling lost and overwhelmed. I believed I was failing at my roles as a mother, spouse, and friend. Ultimately, I was neglecting my own mental health needs. In a moment of despair, my body finally produced tears, a release I had desperately needed. Yet, those instances were fleeting, often interrupted by my attempts to bury my emotions with alcohol. I didn’t realize then that my addiction was blocking my path to healing. I yearned to cry, to embrace that cathartic release, but it always seemed just out of reach.
I would take long, hot showers, hoping the water would trigger an emotional release. I cranked up the music, trying to drown out the noise of my thoughts, searching for the root of my sadness. I pushed my body to its limits during workouts, hoping the physical pain would break through my emotional walls.
I longed to cry, but it eluded me. I watched friends easily shed tears during moments of joy, frustration, or sadness, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with me. Crying felt like something I desired in a healthy way, yet I found myself unable to do so.
I had many reasons to cry—depression, PTSD, anxiety—they all chipped away at my self-worth. The shame and guilt surrounding my spiraling alcohol addiction only deepened my sadness. But still, I never cried. It wasn’t because I was strong; rather, I felt something within me was broken. In truth, I was vulnerable.
One day, my son remarked, “Mom, you never seem sad because you never cry.” Oh, sweetheart, if only you knew how often I feel that way. I tried to explain that just because my sadness didn’t manifest in tears, it didn’t mean I wasn’t struggling internally. It’s a conversation I hope to have with them as they grow older, teaching them about the complexities of mental health.
I want to show them that crying over minor disappointments is different from the sadness I experience. I also want them to know that I can cry. In the wake of my sobriety, I have become more in touch with my emotions than ever before.
Not long ago, just shy of a year sober, I was working late one night when an overwhelming sadness surged within me. I found myself crying for the first time in years, my tears a release of pent-up emotions that had long been suppressed. I had cried more in that week than in the past 15 years combined. I even cried during therapy, a new experience that felt both liberating and unsettling.
I haven’t cried in front of my kids yet, but I know that day will come. My newfound ability to embrace vulnerability reassures me that I’m not broken. My wish to share this part of myself with my loved ones tells me that I am on the right path toward healing.
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In summary, my journey with emotions and vulnerability has been complicated. While my children have never seen my tears, I look forward to sharing my true feelings with them as they grow. I am learning that crying is not a sign of weakness, but a path towards healing.
Keyphrase: why my children have never seen me cry
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