Have you ever pondered how your children will reflect on their memories of you when they grow up? When the long days of mediating disputes and saying no to yet another snack fade into the past? When the fleeting hours of quiet time between their bedtime and yours no longer feel precious because there’s no longer a reason to cherish them?
I certainly have. I envision my two boys as adults, reminiscing about their shared childhood experiences through different perspectives, much like my siblings and I do. I imagine them as grown men still joking about trivial arguments from years ago. Now, they can laugh about it without needing a clear “winner,” and they won’t storm off to separate rooms—rooms I couldn’t afford to give them since I’m a single mom managing our budget in a three-bedroom space.
Yet, during particularly challenging days or weeks—sometimes even months—I can’t help but wonder: will they remember me as a sad mom?
I’ve battled depression for much of my life. When I saw those two pink lines eight years ago, my depression intensified, swelling like a balloon that no pin could deflate. It was as if no bitter pill could alleviate the heaviness I felt.
I recall moments when it seemed hard to breathe, and the thought of experiencing that despair again quickened my heartbeat and filled my mind with restlessness. I dread the possibility of reaching a point where I question why I should even try to rise again.
Some weeks are brighter than others, and I intentionally savor those moments, just as I do now. Through my journey of reaching out to family and friends—something often encouraged, yet something I hesitated to do—I sometimes found frustration in their inability to grasp my perspective.
After six consecutive days of my sister checking in on me with texts asking if I was okay, I finally admitted, “No, I’m not okay; I’m in my car crying because it’s been three weeks since I felt any relief.” She meant well, but she couldn’t truly comprehend the depths of depression because she hadn’t experienced it herself. She offered to come over, to help, and assured me that this feeling would pass, unaware that it doesn’t just vanish like a bad day.
She reminded me I needed to be healthy for my children, but it’s not that straightforward. The truth is, when the darkness begins to recede and a sliver of light appears, that hope is often tainted by everything I messed up while I was down, creating an overwhelming burden as I try to rise again.
However, it’s comforting to know that someone cares, even if they don’t fully understand. Once I articulated how much I needed a different kind of support—one that recognizes you can’t just will yourself back to “okay”—she began to understand.
So even when you’d rather do anything but share your feelings, please do. Don’t be the person who stays silent—don’t be like I was. I was the woman who laughed off her struggles, masking them with humor about how my kids drove me “crazy,” while what I truly needed was courage to express my feelings honestly.
I fear that my struggles with depression have left a negative mark on my children’s memories. I worry my eight-year-old will connect the dots and realize that all those naps I took were not due to being overworked but rather a desire to escape reality. I worry he’ll remember the fear in his eyes during my rough patches, especially when I was moving apartments alone, reaching my breaking point.
What can we do as mothers when we feel too fragile to seek help, yet close to shattering and scared of not being the kind of parent our kids need? The kind that plays, laughs, and provides stability?
Don’t wait until you’re so exhausted that sleep seems like the only escape. Talk to someone about your feelings. They may advise you to take care of yourself, but that can seem impossible, especially for those of us who have struggled even before becoming parents.
If you still have a chance to reach out, do it. Whether it’s talking to someone, visiting a doctor, joining a community, or pursuing a passion, these steps can help you reconnect with your sense of self while embracing your new identity as a mom.
Despite my battles with depression over the years, I hope I shielded my children from its weight and that they will cherish the joyful moments we’ve created together. I also hope they will understand what depression is, not just in theory but through the dialogue we’ve shared. Even if it revealed itself in its most challenging form, I hope my courage to confront it made me a figure of strength in their eyes.
Ultimately, I wish for them to remember me not as a sad mom but as a happy one.
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