Have you ever contemplated how your children will reflect on their memories of you once they are adults? The long days spent mediating arguments and denying endless snack requests will eventually fade. The fleeting moments of solitude between their bedtimes and yours will no longer feel significant when there’s no longer a need to cherish them.
I often envision my two sons as adults, reminiscing about their childhood experiences through their unique perspectives, much like my siblings and I do. I can imagine them recounting trivial disputes from years ago, now able to laugh at the absurdity of it all, rather than retreating to their rooms in frustration—rooms that I could never afford to provide them individually as a single mother. However, during particularly challenging times, I can’t help but wonder if they will remember me as a sad mother.
Throughout my life, I have battled with depression. The moment I discovered I was pregnant eight years ago, my struggles intensified, inflating like an unpoppable balloon—no medication could alleviate the heaviness. I recall instances where I felt suffocated by despair, and the thought of confronting those feelings again sends my heart racing and my mind into chaos. I fear that the next time I find myself in that dark place, I may question the purpose of even trying to rise again.
Some weeks are better than others, and I strive to cherish the joyful moments as they come. In reaching out to family and friends—something that is often encouraged but was difficult for me—I have sometimes felt frustrated by their inability to truly understand my perspective. After a week of my mother’s concerned messages asking if I was alright, I finally admitted, “No, I’m not okay; I’m in my car crying because it’s been three weeks since I’ve felt anything but dread every morning.”
While my mother means well, she has never experienced clinical depression, so her reassurances often miss the mark. When she offered to come over or asked what she could do, I knew she didn’t grasp that my struggles wouldn’t simply pass like a bad day. I carry the weight of my experiences, which feel permanently intertwined with my identity, no matter how much positivity I try to muster. The fear of unraveling again is always present.
Yet, it’s comforting to know that someone cares, even if they don’t fully understand. Once I expressed that I needed more than just encouragement to “be healthy for my kids,” she began to comprehend. It’s crucial to speak up about your feelings, even when it feels daunting. I was once the person who made light of my struggles, cracking jokes about how my kids drove me “crazy” when, in truth, I needed to admit how overwhelmed I felt.
I worry that my battles with depression have negatively impacted how my children will remember me. I fear my eight-year-old will connect the dots and realize my frequent naps were not due to fatigue from work, but rather a desire to escape my reality. I worry he might recall the fear in his eyes during a difficult transition, like when I moved apartments alone and my mental state deteriorated.
What can mothers do when we feel too broken to seek help, yet are on the brink of shattering? We can’t wait until we are at the point of wishing to sleep to avoid being awake. It’s essential to talk about our feelings. Though it may seem impossible to care for ourselves at times, reaching out can lead to a sense of relief.
If I could go back and change my approach, I would be honest about how lost and isolated I felt instead of pretending to be strong. If you still have the opportunity to seek help, take it—whether it’s speaking to someone, consulting a doctor, joining a support group, or pursuing a passion. These actions can help you reconnect with your former self while you navigate your new identity as a mother.
Despite my struggles with depression over the past eight years, I hope I managed to shield my children from its full impact. I trust they will remember the joyful moments we shared and the traditions we created together. I also believe they will come to understand what depression truly means—not through definitions but through my willingness to discuss it. Although it manifested in dark times, I hope my courage to confront my struggles will shine through in their memories, motivating me to be the mother they need. I aspire for them to see me not as a sad figure, but as a joyful one.
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