My story

When I began trying to have a baby in my mid-30s, I thought I had life pretty well figured out. My career was moving forward. My relationship felt stable with our future goals in sight. My lifelong anxiety finally felt managed with medication and regular therapy. I was solid. We were solid. And a lot of people get pregnant and have babies, right? How hard could it be?

You might see where this is going. After the reality of trying to conceive, once I finally did get pregnant came all day nausea and fatigue to the point where I could barely function. Discomfort in my body, in my clothes, and an alienation from myself. I was aware that there was another life inside me, but couldn’t connect to it. I missed my autonomy, my agency, my body, my energy, my life. For the first time, along with the “advanced maternal age” stamp on my chart, came an awareness of my body as a ticking clock.

And in this gap between expectations and reality, came anxiety. Endlessly obsessing every time I ate a burger that might have been too rare, a strawberry from the garden that I might not have rinsed off well enough, hyper fixation on every cramp, sign or symptom leading to endless googling and reassurance seeking.

And with the anxiety, guilt. Self judgment. Shame. Why did this seem harder for me than for everyone else? Why didn’t I like this? Why couldn’t I connect to the baby I was growing? Why did I wait so long to do this? And the question….was I not meant to be a parent? Was I already a bad mom?

Fortunately, there was an end in sight. I endured pregnancy knowing (though not fully trusting) that eventually this baby would exit my body. I prepared for birth, went to breastfeeding classes, and got my home ready to welcome a newborn. But mostly, I just looked forward to going back to being myself. Sure, I would have a baby now, but aside from that I could go back to being the version of myself I was before, right? How much does having a baby really change your life?

Well, once again, you can probably see where this is going. I had been prepared to give birth (though the experience itself was shocking), and for sleepless nights and less time for myself and with my partner. I wasn’t prepared for the intrusive thoughts, irritability, brain fog and relentless overwhelm and dread. Seven months postpartum, just as I was starting to adjust to my new life, we experienced a significant traumatic event that once again shook up our sense of stability. One and a half years later, my second son was born, and while this time I was prepared for the postpartum anxiety, at seven months postpartum I developed postpartum depression.

All of the anxiety, guilt, fear, and shame I had been keeping at bay came rushing in. Because I am an EMDR therapist I began to notice the narratives in my head, telling me I was failing, not just at being a mother but in my relationship, my career, my friendships. Pulling at the threads, I realized these narratives weren’t new with motherhood, or with launching my business. These were old stories, stories a part of me had been whispering all my life, that I had learned to silence when things felt more manageable. But with two kids, a husband, pets and a business, I had too much noise in my head to keep them quiet any longer.

I found a new therapist to help me explore and reprocess these old narratives. I talked to my doctor about a suspicion I’d had for a while that I might have ADHD. She connected me to a neuropsychologist who confirmed the ADHD diagnosis, and I began to approach myself with less shame, and more curiosity.

Embracing my neurodivergence, traveling to the places that feel scary and learning to accept all of my parts has given me a path forward. It’s hard to admit certain truths to myself. But it allows me to be human. To be known. To love and to be loved.

This is what I want for my clients, whether or not you have or want children, or identify as neurodivergent, or your gender identity. I want you to feel safe and supported enough to hear those whispered thoughts that come for us, and rather than turn away to go towards them. To follow them to the roots, and say, I see you, I welcome you, and you are only part of my story. I can create a new one now.