It’s been 8 months since I decided to be a stay at home mom. A long, confusing, emotional, mentally challenging, and physically draining 8 months. 8 months of trying to figure it out. Figure out ways to not overwhelm my self with daily house tasks, to not go insane with the robotics of grocery shopping and meal planning. Pinning thousands of ideas to not get predictable with dinner (I’m addicted to Pinterest). Figuring it all out along the way, setting aside each mistake I made, hoping that it will get better. Feeling like I was walking a fine line and the anticipation of waiting for myself to mess up began to get so strong. This long 8 months, I found myself at times wondering if I had made a mistake. At the time leaving a then 4 month old Jax was heartbreaking. I’d miss his face, the cuddling, and the bonding. In those 8 months, when the cuddling started to decrease and crawling would turn to walking and walking to running, I would learn that being at home was a job all in its self. My days would be predicted by how Jax felt. My mornings would begin before the sun would rise. Days that I went around the house mute hoping Jax would sleep longer. I bought walking shoes as if I could walk the responsibility of 4 kids away, as if I were walking into my past. It would be the thoughts of “keep going” while I was on the freeway. The extended grocery store trips. The key in the doorknob but the hesitation to open the door. The unsatisfied with life, with so many kids, with what I was doing, who I was becoming. The unknown answer to “Who am I?” During times of frustration because I didn’t want to fold the piles of laundry or the jealously I felt for my husband because he was “free”, it was in these 8 months where I learned so much about myself as a mother, as a wife, as a woman.
Postpartum depression is real. It creeps up on us. It steals our joy, our peace, our happiness, our blessing. It destroys our families and marriages. It affects us mentally, emotionally and physically. Attacks the very essence of our purpose. It wants to eliminate the bond we have to our children. I found myself grasping at the enemies hold on my joy. On my peace. On my life. He desired to take what was given to me. To blind me with lies. These 8 months I had to dig deep. I had to pray. Depend on worship. Challenge my thinking and take the limitations off who God was in my life. Then and only then I felt the grasp come off, and in the first time in months I could breathe. No longer drowning. No longer being pulled under. It was the walks along the shore that reminded me of His Promises. It was the worship music that built me up and the prayer that destroyed the lies.
Jesus is the author and the finisher of our faith, when I was at my end, feeling defeated, I remembered this. I remembered that in my book, I am victorious. I can never loose.
We can never lose.