Postpartum depression and the gift of repair

I don’t even remember a solid 9 months of my life after Kai was born. I had no access to me – I could not locate myself. I could not get to my breath, feel my body, tap into any aspect of who I had been in what felt like a previous life. I no longer knew who I was and the woman I was left with I did not like very much. I was unrecognizable both on the outside and on the inside. The eating disorder that had plagued my teens and young adult life, but had been in remission, reared its ugly head with a vengeance. I was disconnected, disenchanted, and depressed. Everyday for me during this time was a miserable existence of which I dreaded…AND, I had a very small being that needed me. This little unsettled and feisty being needed my every breath, needed my life force to find his…yet, I had none to give. Getting through each day felt like a feat in and of itself, barely at what would be considered a functioning level. This was survival of the fittest and I was not fit to survive. 

Yet, somehow I made it through. By some miracle or many miracles I made it. I survived despite the odds stacked against me – I stepped through and out of the hell I was in…intact…with my little boy by my side, in my bed, in my arms, and in my heart – buried deep, but I always knew he was in there. I always knew that we would resurface someday – altered forever – imprinted always from that hell realm that we had resided in. I had to. I willingly stepped into the world of single mamahood shortly thereafter my first step of re-emergence and I had to make some shit happen for myself and my then 1 year-old little boy. We were on a mission of liberation and there was no turning back.

That was 6 years ago. 6 long, strenuous, challenging, fateful, heartful, empowering, and strengthening years. Transformation at the core of my being – I have reached to the absolute depths of despair over and over again these many years – yet there has always been something to carry me on. I come to my mat and find my breath and feel my body again. I sit on my cushion and access the deepest wisdom inside of myself while breathing deeply and tapping into that well of true love within – that source of all life. I feel it – I hear it – I breathe it – I soften to it – I open to it and miracles do happen, every single day.

And, now, my baby is 7. He is a beaming young boy and we are infinitely connected. I still have moments of disconnect – moments when I just cannot land in that soft place of mamahood – and, he will cry out in desperation: “Aren’t you going to take care of me?” – and my heart breaks every single time as I am snapped immediately back into the present moment – immediately into my heart and I remember my role with this being. I couldn’t always show up for him – but I can now and it is never too late for repair. It is never too late to hold my baby and ease his woes. It is never too late to bond with my baby.

It truly is never too late to fall in love.