“I don’t let very many people into our lives, mostly because I’m spent. And one of the reasons is because of things like ‘at least.’ When you ‘at least’ me as a complex parent, I feel minimized. I feel unheard. I feel compared. If a person gives you a glimpse of their challenges, honor their experience. Validate them. Meet them where they are. And if you can’t think of anything else to say, ‘Can I get you coffee or tea?’ always works.”
“I started crying a lot and cutting myself. I began smoking cigarettes and drinking. I was stoned all the time. I still missed my father. Every time I saw him in town, he walked away. He ignored me, pretending I didn’t exist. And he still does, and has for 11 years.”
“A few weeks later, we received the results. ‘Julius has a diagnosis of autism.’ I went from raising one special needs child to two. I learned quickly I would not be able to have typical ‘mom’ conversations with other new moms. I realized most things parents took for granted were not part of my journey.”
“Something magical happened. I loaded her on my back. I couldn’t see her face, but I could just feel she was happy. I would show her the world, and I wouldn’t let her diagnosis stop her from seeing the amazing beauty it has to offer.”
“I waited for the crosswalk lights to start flashing, checked again for cars, and stepped into the road. We had almost made it halfway when I saw the car. The sound of the car hitting the stroller still haunts my dreams. I pulled his tiny limp body out of the stroller and just screamed his name over and over.”
“I was separating from my husband, all the while wondering whether I was going to live or die. I was sharing a room with a woman who’d been told, ‘You have an incurable blood disease. Death is certain.’ I recall shrinking beneath my blankets, not wanting to bring attention to myself on the other side of the thin layer of privacy hanging between us. She told them ‘I have no family to call,’ and when the doctors left, we sat there in silence. I knew I was destined to do more.”
“I use what little energy I have for my job and my children. By the end of the day, I can’t sleep. I can’t be productive. I want nothing more than to lie in the dark. I give myself a pep talk to finally brush the knots out of my hair. Some days, I look in the mirror and cry. Then comes the mania. Like today, I’ll clean like crazy. Take a nice, long shower. I’ll play extra long with the kids and message all the people my depression kept me from. All while wondering when depression will strike again.”
“I spent my second pregnancy in unrelenting fear. I held my breath during every ultrasound. The first question I’d ask the technician was, ‘Is she breathing?’ I mourned a little bit when I found out we were having another girl, as if I were cheating on our first baby by bringing a different girl into the world. But the one thing I’d always find, even on my very worst days, was hope.”
“Our thoughts of having a second child were buried under years of trauma. Until one day. ‘Kylee, I want a baby.’ That sparked something inside me I never thought would happen again. 4 days after my transfer, I took a pregnancy test expecting nothing. There was a very faint second line. ‘This has to be a fluke.’ My heart began racing. A different kind of panic ensued.”
“‘Which road are you on?’ My voice broke. ‘I don’t know.’ Crying, I couldn’t remember. Then, I heard a voice from the outside. ‘Are you okay?’ I expected him to leave. I didn’t think he’d stick around. He leaned in. ‘Can you get out of the car?’ he asked. I shook my head, still crying. He hugged me tightly and I hugged him back, sobbing against his chest. I hadn’t asked for a hug. It never occured to me how much I needed one.”
