Being a Friend

I’m getting to that age now where bad things are starting to happen to the good people in my life. Friends are enduring infidelity, divorce, death of spouses and parents – and I’m over here feeling like I should have my super-friend badge revoked for incompetence.


Remember how you felt the moment you realized you knew NOTHING about life? Mine came while I was being beaten by the hands of postpartum depression after my first son was born. I had done everything right so my expectation was that everything would GO right. My exceptional pregnancy routine would result in nothing but the best start for my baby and for me. WRONG.

One year into my battle through the darkest hell, (complete with one baby surgery, one full compliment of super-prohibitive baby allergies, and several total losses of perspective, lucidity and self control), life had beaten me swiftly and consistently into my humble new place in the world. What everyone else described as a bit of ‘humble pie’ felt more like having the ignorance of my youth slapped out of me at the jaw, followed by a prolonged period of eating crow.I was no longer anything special or important, but it came with a certain empowerment.

There is so much power in letting go of your convictions, judgments and alienating attitudes about shit you know nothing about. It was the single best thing that’s ever happened to my ‘person’,  but it’s made me hyper-aware of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and of everything I don’t know (which is most things).

What to Say

The trouble with worrying about saying the wrong thing is that it often results in you saying nothing because you know you don’t have a right to an opinion or a judgment about someone’s pain. So although your intentions are purely of compassion, your girlfriendy execution goes tits-up. The battle you want to fight alongside of the people you love most gets the best of you before you can even establish a game plan. You’re left paralyzed and guilty (this, I would imagine, is less than helpful to the person with the real problem).

Maybe the hardest part about watching your grandparents lose their life-long friends, your friends lose their parents, or watching  someone you love be drug through the trenches of disappointment and divorce is that even if you had the words – they wouldn’t make any fucking difference. It is what it is and it ain’t yours for changing.

If You’re Not Making it Worse, You Must be Helping

This is how I deal with this now: I stick my badge of inexperience right where everyone can see it and I lead with that. I don’t know how to lift their emotions, and I don’t know how to fix the assault on their heart.

There are a few things I do know though: I know how to listen without shock or judgment, I know how to cry with a friend, and I know how to do their laundry when they don’t have the capacity to mind the house and their kids are down to one sock. I know how to just be there – sometimes hovering and sometimes just a phone-call away. I’m trying this for now because it’s what I can offer in lieu of wisdom. And when the day is long, there is nothing better than just knowing that somebody’s got your back.

What I Wish I’d Been Told About Post-partum Depression

Photo by Chris Barbalis on Unsplash

New mothers everywhere are being talked to about post-partum depression (PPD) at every government-run meeting. We are told ad-nauseum to watch ourselves for signs of sadness that doesn’t dissipate with the baby blues. We are given stats and shown charts, but for a new mother who has never herself dealt with any of the 75 000 new issues arising out of just having the baby (let alone keeping it alive), much of this one-sided conversation can seem like another meeting that could have been an email, or, another appointment that could have been a nap.

Since mental illness of any kind is diverse in its presentation, it’s no surprise that the snapshot of ‘classic PPD’ that’s presented to new moms can miss the mark entirely. Often, it can be reduced to being presented as a nagging discomfort, instead of a relentless onslaught of symptoms that she feels helpless to combat.

We are aware, of course, that the topic can feel like unnecessary fear mongering to a happy mother of a thriving newborn, and it kind of kills the vibe at mommy class. For a new mom who struggles, though, a bit more honest perspective might be welcomed. So, in the interest of supporting the needs of the few, the following outlines what I wish I had known before PPD hit me like a bat out of hell.

1. You May Not Be the Best Person to Judge Your ‘State’

After all, we have no barometer for what being a new mom should feel like other than what we glean from other women leading up to the birth, which can be summarized as “it will be the hardest thing you ever do”. We kind of get contradicting messages, don’t we? It should be the hardest thing, but also not too hard. How hard is too hard? And if you ask your husband, like you, he’s likely too close to the issue to be objective.

If you tend to be a relentless perfectionist who is hard on herself, you’re at risk of letting this thing go too far for too long. If you, like me, like to yell from across the canyon at your rescue crew ‘I got this’ while clinging to the edge by your last two available fingers, you would be best to talk to a friend or relative before you diagnose yourself as weak, instead of depressed.

2. Your Doctor Might Not Be As Willing to Help as You’d Hoped.

Patricia Tomasi of the Huffington Post writes “…when [mothers] turn to the medical system for help for one of the most common postpartum complications, the onus is thrown back on them to figure their way out of postpartum depression while they’re in the middle of a crisis…”. She’s right.

I talked to my post-partum “care team” until I was blue in the face about the fact that things were not feeling right for me since about day 3 of being a mom. I knew early on that some of the stuff I was experiencing wasn’t run-of-the-mill. Still, they continued to tell me that the first six weeks these things could be considered normal, which turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy because by the sixth week I had stopped bringing it up. I normalized it in order to cope. It wasn’t until I could scarcely function that a psychologist heard me when I said something is wrong. 11 months later and $500 into therapy.

3. You May Need to Doctor-shop

The thing that we sometimes forget about doctors is that they are people just like us. They have areas they are more passionate about than others, and they have beliefs (inherent from culture, society, religion or just in their character) that can sometimes interfere with their prioritizing of concerns. In my case, going to my family doctor who presented with the common trifecta of being a) not a parent b) not a woman and c) a trembling circus clown where it came to women’s issues, did not elicit the results I was looking for.

This doctor was admittedly not confident in prescribing antidepressants safely to breastfeeding mothers, but was also too arrogant to refer me to someone who could.  I was given tranquilizers to put me to sleep, and a google maps printed info sheet on a publicly funded drop-off daycare for mothers in detox programs, when my mother pressed him as-to whom, in his opinion, would watch my child while I doped myself into a coma? Seriously.

I am of the opinion that we prioritize the needs of the child to the detriment of the well-being of the mother (as if they are somehow unrelated issues). It’s so hard to advocate for yourself when you’re overwhelmed, so make lists of your concerns and bring them to the doctor. The rules are that you discuss each one before you leave, and if their answer leaves you feeling more desperate, find yourself another doctor.

4. You Might Forget You’re Sad Because You’re So Angry

It can be hard to see which one comes first when your world is upside-down, but in my case sadness came much later to the party (once I had expended every ounce of energy I had being angry). I woke up angry, I went to sleep angry, I dreamed about punishing my husband (just for being alive, I think). Things that should have been sideline concerns received responses of biblical proportions from me. I felt like a tantruming toddler with big-girl problems. I didn’t have time to be sad.

5. Apocalypse Now

The term Sundowning has been used to describe a change in behavior in dementia patients which correlates with the sun setting each day. I had severe sundown symptoms. Where a dementia patient’s confusion and/or tremors might be increased, my anxiety would rise as the sun went down from a level that was an impairment to a level that was debilitating. I found myself curled up in a ball on the couch, in uncontrolled sobs, feeling like apocalypse was nigh. Night time terrified me for more reasons than I could verbalize.

6. Other Factors May Distort Your Perception of What’s Happening

There’s a lot going on when you’ve just had a baby. I wasn’t feeling good but there were bigger issues at hand. My son had an emergency surgery at 2 weeks, and started showing signs of food allergy in the 3rd. He screamed 10ish hours of the day and only slept in 20-minute increments. It can be difficult to label yourself clinically afflicted when your circumstances could make even the most Theresa-of-Mothers want to light themselves on fire.

Trouble nursing, incessant night wakings and the onslaught of other concerns that invade your psyche after having a child (both real and imagined) can blur your understanding of what you’re experiencing. You might like thinking that you’re superhuman, but if the moment someone hugs you and asks if you’re okay you deteriorate into a sobbing ball of incoherence… there’s your sign.

7. Every Task Can Feel Insurmountable

I recall feeling that absolutely everything was just too much. I walked around like I was freshly traumatized everywhere I went, and little accomplishments were unavailable to me. Eating was too much to ask, let alone preparing it. Getting my kid vaccinated by myself was inconceivable. And I remember, with some frequency, sitting on the floor looking up at a counter full of dishes and knowing that I needed to do them without the slightest idea how.

8. You Might be Faking-it Too Well

I don’t think this can be overemphasized, perfectionist mamas. Some of us can put on a performance that could make any crowd believe we are functioning somewhere in the vicinity of normal. My state of mind was very poor when left to its own devices, so staying around people is what kept me going. It didn’t matter who, and it didn’t matter where. Some of the places I felt best was when I was at the doctor’s office and someone else was home holding my screaming baby. In those offices I would find a smile and some composure, and often forfeit any hope for helpful intervention as a result. It wasn’t until a psychiatrist and 5 of his minions looked at me from across a table and said “but look at you, you present so well. We’ve even had some laughs!” that I realized what all the doctors had been thinking all along. “Of course I look well here,” I said, annoyed. “I’m around people and someone else is looking after my baby so I can pretend to be someone else for 3 hours”. With that, they handed over the Zoloft that would give me my life back.

9. Thoughts of Self Harm Might Not Be on Your Radar

You’ve got a song stuck in your head. Only it isn’t a song. It’s a thought or an image that won’t go away. It might come once in a while, and other times it might be the only thing you can think for hours. It could be unfounded worry about your baby’s wellbeing. It might be something someone said. But it wont leave and it comes with emotions that make it hard to follow conversations or remember basic things. You might feel like everyone would be better off if you left. All of this is bad, but none of it is “thoughts of self-harm or of harming your child”. This is important because asking about thoughts of self-harm,  without asking if you’ve ever wished you could be hit by a bus are two sides of the same very relevant coin.

10. Medication is Not a Life Sentence

Part of being a new mom is wanting to do things right. It’s a job we take seriously, and deservedly so! So, when things aren’t going well, we look to the least intrusive mechanism for relief, and it’s no wonder. We are so very lucky to live at a time where we have access to all manner of alternative medicine! Tinctures, reiki, cognitive therapies, acupuncture and naturopaths – I tried them all, and they’re a great first-line option. The reality of this thing, though, is that sometimes the circumstances are too rootbound for anything to help but a hard reset. (And I would have had to remortgage my house to afford the continued regimen of appointments, all of which were falling short of providing an answer).

When what you’re doing isn’t working, give yourself the space to try something new. And if one medication doesn’t work for you, try another. Something will work. There is a world on the other side of PPD where you wake up excited to see your baby’s face, and maybe even your husband’s! It’s hard to believe it, but medication can turn enemies into friends – and your marriage, or your partnership, deserves it. It can be hard to remember what it feels like to be content, when you are deep in the dark. If, at a certain point, it becomes clear that the monkey on your back isn’t going away without a fight, don’t put yourself in the position of looking back to see that you were robbed of all that time that you could have spent being more active in your child’s life and in your own. You won’t realize how bad you felt, until you feel better. And these interventions aren’t forever, they are there for as long as it works for you and your family. You do what you need to do to move on.

Give Up (Just a Little)

For many of us, motherhood presents itself as the first arena in which we aren’t fully in charge of the outcome. We know this stuff is common, but we still cower to the stigma because we think if we try harder we can claw life back within our control. Giving up white-knuckled control of motherhood allows room to embrace the vastness of the mothering experience. It allows you to give yourself, and other moms with other struggles, a break. You become a safe zone for women to talk about what’s really going on, and you begin to lead with a strong sense of compassion for yourself and others.

The friendships that I’ve fostered in the wake of my experience with PPD have been soul enriching and lasting. We celebrate each other. We look out for each other. We bring dinner when dinner is needed, we pick each other up after long ugly cries, and we help wherever we can help – because it’s okay to need it.

We aren’t superheroes and we aren’t meant to be. Our struggles tend toward similar issues of varying degrees and should inspire us to accept ourselves when we’re up and when we’re down, without the judgment that keeps us too stuck to move forward.


Early in My Days as a New Parent, My Son’s Pediatrician Looked Up at Me While I Complained of Feelings of Guilt for Some Marginal Oversight.

“Now that you’re a mother, you will come to understand that everything is your fault,” she said. Truer words have never been spoken.

Recently, I was burned out. I needed a break from the demands and frustrations associated with motherhood and its complexity in general. I sought spiritual wisdom, as I often do, at an extended meditation program where I was sure that I would escape my feelings of maternal inadequacy and of relentless, insurmountable stress.

Glaring down at me from a large screen was the guru I’d been waiting for. He began an intriguing lecture on our collective and growing impatience and need for instant gratification. I related this to my life, finding resonance in more than a few ways.  And then it happened. Even this man found a way to make me wrong when he compared impatience with his understanding that “when children can’t sit in a chair for 6 hours quietly, we call them ADHD and medicate them for being children”. I had come there to escape this kind of arrogance. Was this guy for real? Turns out that he was, and I’m not sure I should be surprised. After all, he was doing what many have the habit of doing – reducing this extremely difficult, highly emotional subject to just that – a symptom of our society and its lazy (impatient) parenting.


Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) – the acronym hardly needs to be broken down these days. But for all our understanding of the term itself, we seem to have a pervasive misunderstanding of what it implies.

ADHD is a confirmed neurological disorder, affecting more than 5{98c51d35a7b04f8aeaece7991b583a11e0c8e1af5282be96a1e23b023f6519b4} of children. And while numbers and studies are abundant, there remains a kind of atmospheric indifference to the compelling evidence that this thing is real. Perhaps what’s missing from the conversation is an understanding of the complex and difficult-to-treat symptoms associated with this disorder, and the enormous challenges that can be presented to these children and their families. Perhaps what is missing from the conversation is a day in the life of one of their parents.

Parents Have Plenty to Consider

ADHD is not code for ‘can’t sit still’. If it were that simple, and it isn’t, the debate would scarcely need to be had. This disorder comes with a plethora of comorbid disorders such as anxiety, compulsions, sensory processing disorder (SPD), sleep disorders, emotional dysregulation, impulse control challenges and more. Often, parents and caregivers of children with ADHD are dealing with far more than just a kid who is ‘busy’. ADHD is indiscriminate in its manifestation, and difficult to diagnose due to a high degree of variability in its presentation. Moreover, this is a disorder that does not have a physical presentation. That means that “your kid looks okay to me, you just need to discipline him” really is irrelevant to the conversation.

The Treadmill of Responsibility

While it is true that there are instances in which these presentations are managed with soft approaches like therapy and coaching, the reality is that in many cases the benefits of medicating far outweigh the risks. The common rhetoric appears to reflect that parents are interested in medication as a ‘quick fix’, but this could not be further from the truth. The truth is, medication is only one piece of the puzzle, and can be difficult to access if you don’t have a doctor who is confident prescribing. While we want our kids to be thriving in the world with as little intervention as possible, abstaining from necessary intervention does not help these children interact appropriately with their peers, maintain friendships, make them available for learning (socially or academically), or develop important rapport with family members and friends outside of their nuclear family (relationships within the nuclear family are also often strained). So yes to medication, where appropriate. Yes to therapists and psychiatrists, and specialty parenting classes, and funding applications, and restricted diets, and sleepless nights, and marital discord, and endless parental guilt, and working with the teacher, and extra glasses of wine, and trips to your own doctor (if you can find time) for your own medication. Because we can do anything, but not everything. For everything, some moms need carefully considered medical intervention, too.

Just as we have come a long way in understanding the risk-benefit ratio of medicating clinical depression, ‘no medication’ still sounds good in theory, until someone you love is suffering unbearably. Furthermore, untreated adolescents suffering from ADHD are shown to be more susceptible to self-medicating with illicit drugs to control symptoms – because contrary to popular belief, this is no fun for them either.

And Another Thing

Advocates for more militant discipline and more conscientious parenting should consider the flaws in their thinking, and the stress that these family units are often operating under. Funding cuts in the medical and educational systems coupled with unhealthy levels of stress within the home often leads to caregiver fatigue and isolation. If it would make our critics feel better, though, we’ve all tried structured consistent discipline, too. Lots of it. 

So, if you or someone you know has had remarkable success overcoming ADHD with extra attention, love and cuddles, be eternally grateful. That is not the story for the vast majority of ADHD families. Our children are loved –  beautiful, intelligent, and gifted in as many ways as they are complex and challenging. With respect, if you haven’t got anything nice to say, get out of our way. We’re busy trying to accomplish what criticism cannot.

When to Call it

I’ve spent years like all of you, doing what I thought I was supposed to do. I got married young (yes, that’s working out), had a successful albeit short-lived career, and then I had a baby and it kind of all started to fall apart.

So, fuck it. I’m calling it. The rules are changing now.

Photo by Gerome Viavant on Unsplash

Getting Oldish

I’ve just stumbled through another birthday. They won’t quit coming. Up until yesterday I was pretty sure that the best thing about my birthday this year had been that text I got from my best friend letting me know I was not, in fact, as old as I thought I was. She did me a solid; gently reminded me of how to do simple math,

and here I am again… 32.

The truth is, though, that whether that number seems big or small, you’ve got to know that 32 is too many years to have lived and still not know who you are.

40 Long Hours a Week Under Gag Order

I’m not going to spend another second living in a stranger’s body, censoring who I am at my foundation.

I will never again work in a capacity which requires me to take 20 minutes to tell Bob that we have some ‘concerns’, that we see ‘room for improvement’, when all Bob wants to know is who is gunning for him and how long he has to get out before risking (simultaneous) financial implosion and a nail in the coffin of his fragile marriage. Bob knows he’s being managed out. He doesn’t need my aloof ass, at half his age, sitting across from him to manage his performance. All he needs from me is “So Bob, you’re fucked. There’s no way out now after that shit you pulled in the meeting”. A Jack Kevorkian of sorts, putting an end to what could be an extended circus performance. Bob would have thanked me.

What in the sweetest fuck was I thinking when I went into HR? I’ve spent my entire life walking around hoping everyone liked me! Why, when my professor told us on the last day of our first class, that cafeteria conversations would likely come to a screeching halt when we walked in the room, did I think “Well fack me! Sign me up for 30 years of this! And the inability to use the work ‘fuck’ for 50 hours a week?! Oh HELLS YA! I can totally handle that!” Like, really…

Perspective – Get Some

When you step away from a job you don’t like, you feel like the victim of some strange pyramid scheme.. And the inventory of 550 bottles of Amway’s ‘best-selling’ beard shampoo hangs around for years just to haunt you.

Ridiculous missteps aside, my job now is to get back to myself. Along the way, I want to demonstrate to my very young children that there is a difference between being authentic because it’s who you are, and being an argumentative angsty dick. (And it ain’t about attention either, honey, so don’t get any ideas about turning 15 and deciding you can out-attitude your mother because your mother is the sarcasta-bitch O.G. and I will end you). This is about allowing yourself to be who you are so that you can stand to live with yourself for the next 50, or 20, or 10 years. Hell, if you get fake enough just the idea of one more week could put you within arms reach of that nervous breakdown thing! I think that’s when nice men take you on a vacation to the quiet of a hospital room. Very exclusive.

I’m not doing it anymore. Put on your forward thinking brains, let go of the judgment, and let’s get on with constructing a life we can live with.