On a bright morning, my young daughter sat at the kitchen table, legs swinging as she cheerfully munched on her favorite cereal. While I stood at the sink, washing dishes and half-listening to her animated chatter, I suddenly noticed a silence in the room. Turning to her, I saw her gazing at me with a curious expression.
“Mommy, you smile so much now. And you seem to like me more lately,” she remarked, before returning to her cereal, seemingly unfazed by what she had just said.
In that moment, tears welled in my eyes—not from hurt, but from the realization that my new anxiety medication was taking effect. My daughter was absolutely right.
The challenges of motherhood had weighed heavily on my mental health. My child had arrived under dramatic circumstances, and nothing had unfolded as I had envisioned. A struggle with breastfeeding and the shadows of postpartum depression left me feeling disillusioned about the joys of motherhood.
I was unprepared for the sleepless nights and the overwhelming responsibilities of caring for a newborn around the clock. As a stay-at-home mom, I often felt isolated and lonely, pushing those feelings aside while scolding myself for not feeling grateful for the opportunity to see my daughter grow.
Over time, anxiety slowly seeped into my life, becoming a constant companion. I experienced restless nights, debilitating self-doubt, and varying levels of panic. Even on good days, I felt a tightness in my chest, and on the bad days, I was engulfed in rage and fear. I clung to a rigid routine, believing that if I could control my day, I wouldn’t fail as a mother. I wore myself thin trying to maintain the facade of a perfect life, unwilling to admit to anyone that I was struggling.
The cycle of self-doubt played on repeat in my mind:
- Good mothers don’t dread their lives.
- Good mothers don’t panic at the thought of a day with toddlers.
- Good mothers don’t complain about being a mom.
When my son arrived shortly after, my symptoms intensified, yet I remained silent.
I had a beautiful family, but I often found myself crying in the laundry room, hidden from view, because the anguish of anxiety felt more unbearable than any physical pain I had ever known. I felt as if an elephant was resting on my chest.
Looking around at my loving home, my supportive husband, and my beautiful children, I struggled to feel happiness. But who was I to voice my pain? I convinced myself that others had it worse, shoving my despair down and putting on a brave face.
However, the crying intensified. Sleep grew elusive, and arguments with my husband became more frequent. I found it increasingly difficult to engage with my children, feeling like a shadow of the mother I wanted to be.
I was trapped in a cycle of denial, unsure how to express that I was falling apart or that motherhood wasn’t living up to my expectations. I dreaded the idea of being the woman who ended up sobbing in her doctor’s office, begging for answers to my irritability, insomnia, and other symptoms.
When my doctor gently suggested that anxiety might be the root of my struggles, I resisted. I was convinced it was something else—my thyroid, my hormones, anything but a condition that carried the weight of social stigma. To me, admitting I had anxiety equated to failure. I believed a good night’s sleep and some peace were all I needed after years of navigating the demands of two small children.
My doctor reassured me that if I had diabetes, I would take insulin without hesitation. If my thyroid was underactive, I’d accept medication for it. “Anxiety is a legitimate illness,” he stated firmly, looking me in the eye. He emphasized that medications could help, and when he asked how ignoring my symptoms had served me so far, I reluctantly agreed to explore this path.
I began my medication that very afternoon, filled with skepticism and shame. However, six weeks later, as I stood at the sink, my daughter’s innocent observation reminded me that I was finding my way back to joy.
When I pulled her into a warm embrace and whispered, “Mommy loves you,” I truly felt happiness for the first time since entering motherhood.
Every journey to rediscovering joy in motherhood is unique; mine included the use of medication, which has been life-changing. I am grateful every single day for this choice.
For those interested in family planning, you may find our post on home insemination kits helpful, as well as this excellent resource on artificial insemination.
In summary, embracing medication for anxiety can be a crucial step in restoring balance and joy in motherhood. It’s an acknowledgment that taking care of oneself is just as important as caring for others.