So I usually think of myself as a “real” person---I try to present it how it is and not hide too much of myself from people. You know the type: what you see is what you get. That being said, everyone has a few things that they keep to themselves or struggle with silently. And thank goodness for that! I mean, can you imagine? Meeting people on a daily basis would be like a support group for addicts; “hi, I’m __________, and I obsessively ________ (insert here whatever horrible habit you have that you would rather die before sharing it)” We all have had those occasions where people do, from time to time, open up to us way too fast and tell us way too much about the skeletons in their closet and while most good humans of course are concerned and try to show compassion and offer some advice, they at the same time are secretly thinking to themselves, “oh my word, how can I escape this person?!” and then our cell phone rings and we praise the Gods for an excuse to RUN while at the same time offering an apology and a hurried goodbye to said person.

It is because of the above scenario, I think, that sometimes we hide our struggles from others. We don’t want to be “that” person. And so we carry on, fighting the good fight and putting on our “strong” face. We share our struggles only with those most dear to us, if we are blessed to have such people in our lives, and assume that most around us would be shocked to know that “so and so struggles with such and such.”

Well, for those of you who want to know more about me (because for the most part, I am pretty much an open book), here is a personal story I feel prompted to share that will give you insight into my daily life (and, I am pretty sure, you will relate to it):

I struggle with depression. I have dealt with it off and on since my freshman year of college, but the dark days got especially challenging during my most recent pregnancy and I found myself spiraling downward into fatigue, sadness, anger, and all the other fun side-effects of said condition. Being pregnant, I was hesitant to go back on medication for fear it would affect my growing baby. That said, things got to the point that there was no longer any real “considering” to be done-I had to start medication again. Luckily, I had an excellent healthcare team and loving family members that rallied around me and got me through that difficult time and back to a more “balanced” me.

However, since the birth of my #2, (and those of you who have had children know this feeling well) I have found myself struggling again. Such is motherhood, of course. There are the good days, the bad days, the several days in a row when you are too tired to change your bed sheets even though your toddler peed on them (nothing a towel can’t cover up, right?), the bliss days, etc. As a mother, when you struggle with depression, those bad days can really feel like horrible days and the gray clouds that follow you seem never ending…

So here is the story: (I know, I know, I rambled, but here it is)

This past Friday I had let the husband go for a “boys night” and I was attempting to put the boys to bed. Needless to say (you guessed it, didn’t you?), it wasn’t happening. At all. My baby would drift off to sleep and then pop his big brown eyes wide open and suddenly be very much awake. Awake, and demanding to be held. Which was particularly difficult for me at the time because my toddler also wanted my attention, a sippy cup, and “puzzles” (his latest obsession) and I felt as if I didn’t have enough hands, energy, and patience. The wailing of the baby continued, the whining of the toddler adding to the homey sounds of domestic bliss, and then my mind started to spin. You know what I mean, SPIN. That negative self-talk that spirals downward fast and leads to nowhere. All I had wanted to do that night was put the boys down and work on my lesson for the next week (I teach New Testament for BYU and have been feeling like I could do better for my students, so I was eager to put some time in). It quickly was made manifest to me that lesson prep was NOT happening that night. Which led to me feeling bad that I hadn’t woke early that morning at 6am like I had intended and got my scripture time in. Which led to me feeling like I was spiritually lazy. Which led me to feel guilty. Which reminded me that I needed to pray, but I felt unworthy of even attempting to open my mouth to my Heavenly Parents because, after all, I hadn’t even done my scripture study (you can see how truly ridiculous negative self-talk is but man, when you are in the moment, nothing seems more real). Then I realized how tired I was, and then I started feeling bad about myself physically, etc. etc. etc. Spiraling. To nowhere. Quickly.

I decided to be wise and step away from the situation for a second and take some deep breaths. I let the baby cry in the other room, and I set Mana up with his puzzles, and then I stood in the kitchen, numb, feeling like I was about to explode. The thought “prayer” came into my mind again, and before I could talk myself out of it like any self-respecting “mortification of the flesh” Christian would do, because after all, I wasn’t feeling worthy (which I really am not a mortification type person but sometimes I sure act and think like one), I just did it. Yes, thank you Nike, Greek Goddess of Victory, for inspiring the motto---I “just did it.” I prayed. I lifted up my hands and slid my back down the side of my oven and I just prayed. A mother’s prayer-the kind where you don’t really have words but you sure do have a lot of emotions because “just everything is TOO MUCH. TOO MUCH. I don’t even know what I need but I need YOU. I need to feel loved. I need to feel enough. And I need to feel strong. Help. Please help.” While those might not have been the exact words of my mouth, they surely were the words of my heart.

And then, what I would consider a miracle, happened---everything seemed quiet. Tears streamed down my face and I felt an incredible surge of self-love, strength, and peace. My Savior had heard me, I was enough, I was going to be okay. The words “be still and know that I am God” (Psalms 46:10) never seemed more applicable than that moment to me at that time. The baby had calmed, and was silent for a time. Then, I heard him babbling to himself calmly and happily. There is no doubt in my mind that my grandmothers on both sides of my heritage were with me that night as ministers, offering support, motherly wisdom and comfort. As I continued to cry, I heard Manasseh’s little footsteps come into the kitchen. My head was down, and I could sense he was standing in front of me. Then I heard his little voice, “mom? You sad?” and felt his little hands circle my face and lift up my chin. I looked right at him and told him mom was sorry for being cranky, for yelling, and that I loved him very much. “Love you too, mom!” he said. Then he took my hands and forced my lips into a smile and said, “mom happy now?” I just wrapped my arms around him and cried. He let me cry. This is really quite incredible for two reasons: 1) he is only two and a half and 2) he is a whirlwind of energy and almost never lets himself be still. Yet, here he was, my little boy, taking care of ME. He saw that was still crying, paddled into the bathroom, and grabbed some toilet paper. He then dabbed my eyes and said “mom, okay? You okay? No sad, mom.” I allowed myself to take a deep breath, stop my balling, and look at him. “Yes,” I told him. “Mom is okay. Thank you, Mana.” He patted me on the shoulder and immediately went back to his puzzles.

I continued to sit there, emotionally exhausted but basking in the quenching power of the spirit that had just overcome me. I took some deep breaths, made myself a protein shake, and went in and picked up the baby. I was okay. I could do this. I wasn’t alone.

And so, there is my story. A little wordy, sorry. The reason I share this with you all is because sometimes it is good to know you aren’t the only one who struggles. That you aren’t the only one who has meltdowns (and trust me, that is BY FAR not the worst meltdown I have had. Get to know me better, and I might tell you some of my really good ones J ). Motherhood is SO HARD. It is meant to be---because it is the purest refiner’s fire that sculpts us into the eternal beings we are meant to be. Moms, we are doing it! We are okay. God is mindful of us. Our mothers and grandmothers who went before us are mindful of us. Let’s not be afraid to break every now and then, because after all, it is only when we are broken that the Lord can then pick us up as pieces and shape us into something MARVELOUS. And I have a feeling that we are going to love that “marvelous” when the Lord is finished.

Vive les mamans!