“This moment was one I’d never in my 33 years of anxiety imagined happening to me. I held my phone steadily pointed towards my little boy, in hopes of capturing his every move on video. I was witnessing something I’d never have wished on the worst of enemies. I searched ‘Polymicrogyria,’ ran to the toilet, threw up my breakfast and curled into a tight ball. When I tell friends my son has a condition that causes epilepsy, they respond by saying, ‘at least that is treatable.’”
“I thought marriage would be the end of all my problems. 6 months into my sobriety, we found out we were having a baby. I quickly got addicted to my painkillers and stopped breastfeeding 4 weeks in. ‘Your life will never get better. Just end it.’ I sat there and cried with a shotgun in hand. I was taken away in an ambulance while my son slept in the next room. I went from being the middle class, church going, straight As, lead in in musicals, student council member to prison time.”
“For a while, this actually worked. I posted more freely; comfortable in stating my true heart, sharing my real struggles and joys without the shackles of the judgement they would surely throw my way. I did not feel the urge to edit or tip toe. I didn’t censor what was truly felt, even knowing it may help someone else, for the sake of possibly ‘pleasing’ these two. Or even for the sake of them not saying anything at all. I was freed.”
“I woke up, something didn’t feel right. Before I could even grasp what was happening, 10 people were in the room. I laid on the operating table thinking, ‘Please be okay, little one, please.’ My husband was in the waiting room, no idea I was even in surgery. All I could think was, ‘She is so tiny.’ I just held her in front of me. She looked so angry. She just stared at my husband and sons with tensed eyebrows, so incredibly inconvenienced by us. It’s absolutely hilarious.”
“I’m tired of carrying pepper spray. I’m tired of clinging to my cup at parties like some wild animal out of fear of getting roofied, again. I’m tired of school dress codes. No, my shoulders are not sexy or distracting. I’m tired of women covering their bruises with makeup before work. Y’all, I am TIRED.”
“‘Does the pain shoot down the back of your legs?,’ my friend asked. ‘Yes. It feels like knives carving me out from the inside. But my doctor doesn’t believe it’s worse than typical period cramps.’ I made an appointment with what felt like my millionth doctor. Narcotics didn’t work, CBD didn’t work, ibuprofen didn’t touch it. I have kids and work and life to live, I can’t be laying down all day every day. I didn’t want to allow the pain of endometriosis to make me a bitter person.”
“My friend invited me to a local nightclub. Before I knew it, I was dancing with someone and their hands were rubbing up and down my back. He whispered in my ear, ‘Are you wearing a corset?’ That scared the absolute life out of me. It was my scars, once a gaping hole through my back, and he could feel them through my clothing.”
“The truth is, I resent being a disciplinarian, even though I know it’s good and right. So today, I gave myself the luxury of picking my battles. And to be honest, it was freaking amazing. Chill a little, mamas. The kids are alright.”
“I did what I had to do, which meant dragging my exhausted toddler on the subway, letting him sleep on me, then carrying him 8 blocks, all while wearing a full suit on the hottest day in history. I was literally dripping with sweat. We’re doing what we can to survive.”
“Within a minute, a female Busch Gardens employee approached me and told me I could not breastfeed my child. Doing so would be offensive to park patrons, and I would have to move.”
