January 25, 2023
It’s a warm Sunday evening, and here I am, standing in line at the grocery store, leaning against my overflowing cart. The clock strikes a quarter past eight, and I realize I won’t make it home in time to prepare my little one for bed. My daughter and I have a cherished routine of heading to her bedroom for the last diaper change, where I shower her with kisses and sweet words while dressing her in cozy footed pajamas. Those quiet moments, illuminated by the soft glow of her bedside lamp, are the highlights of my day. Tonight, my husband will have to take over this ritual, and while that’s perfectly fine, a wave of sadness washes over me for missing out.
In just a few days, I’ll be flying to California for a week-long getaway with friends—an occasion that feels less like a “girls’ trip” now that I’m a mother. It’s something I’ve eagerly anticipated for months, but as the trip approaches, I can’t help but feel a bittersweet tug in my heart.
As I stand in the checkout line, I glance at the magazines and decide to grab one for the flight—maybe even two! It strikes me that I haven’t indulged in such light reading since my last trip to California. I’ve been buried in books, but the allure of glossy pages filled with fashion and pop culture is nostalgic. They remind me of my twenties—lazy Sunday afternoons spent flipping through pages, traveling with a stack of magazines in my carry-on, and the thrill of landing my first job on a magazine staff. Those days carried a certain romantic melancholy, a sense of uncertainty about the future.
Yet, those feelings eventually morphed into something more profound. I remember the exhilarating highs of love—when my heart felt full, and I believed I could navigate life with someone by my side. Then came the tumultuous waves of early motherhood, which often felt like navigating a dark room, unsure of where I was headed. Moments of triumph with my newborn were overshadowed by days that felt overwhelmingly heavy, where I celebrated mere minutes passing by while I waited for my husband to return home. My sense of self diminished as I struggled through the challenges of new motherhood.
Before entering the grocery store this evening, I paused in my car, gripping the steering wheel. Nearly a year ago, I sat there, tears streaming down my face, feeling utterly lost. I had hoped a quick grocery run would serve as a break from my responsibilities at home. That night, I cried so intensely that I frightened myself. I remember contemplating how close we lived to the airport and how easy it would be to buy a ticket and escape my life for a while. I loved my husband and my baby dearly, but something felt profoundly wrong. I didn’t fully grasp the depths of my sadness, but postpartum depression often defies logic.
Reflecting on that moment in the car tonight, I’m struck by how far I’ve come. Here I am, a mother to a vibrant 13-month-old, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of being away for a week while my past self would have longed to flee. It’s liberating to have shed the emotional paralysis that once consumed me and to embrace motherhood with pride and capability.
Of course, I know challenges lie ahead—like navigating the terrible twos or the complexities of raising a teenage daughter—but for now, I’m content. There’s no escape from motherhood, but at this moment, I wouldn’t dream of wanting to.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Leah Thompson shares her personal journey through postpartum depression, illustrating the stark contrast between her past struggles and present joys of motherhood. Through the lens of nostalgia, she navigates the complexities of early motherhood while embracing the profound love she feels for her child.