My first year as a mother of two, was the hardest year of my life. It was the year that I didn’t recognize myself. The year that I felt like a shell of the person I “used to be”. The year that I suffered from postpartum depression.
It was the end of April.
I was slowly emerging from the blues that had plagued me since becoming a mother five years earlier. I felt like a shell of the fun, vibrant woman I used to be.
On that grey, wet, dull, day (April is still basically Winter), I had five, consecutive, kid-free hours, between drop-off and pick-up.
This meant that I would be running around all day doing errands, and would be exhausted by the time I picked up our kids, ages three and five.
The to-do list raced through my mind: we just ran out of toilet paper, our eldest needed new indoor shoes for school, dinner needed to go in the crock pot before noon, and today was the last day that I could return the lightbulbs (I had bought the wrong ones...again….ugh).
“Is this IT?” I remember thinking. THIS is what I hustled my way through my twenties and early thirties for?
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