The Only Way Out is Through

Hi Julia,

Yes, you! That’s right: you made it. This is future you — alive and well. I wanted to check in with you because you're probably sitting in the same crappy black shroud in the middle of the night watching Parenthood and could use a friend.

Someone will soon tell you “The only way out is through,” and in that same breath, she will share her own experience of newmomness and postpartum depression and offer living proof that you will get through this.

I know it doesn’t feel this way. I know that sounds like a trick. I know the doctors and lactation consultants and even (more subtly) your friends and family — and yourself — are putting pressure on you to boost your milk supply and feed your daughter in the “natural” way. You are trying and maybe you need to do that now — to push yourself until you’re ready to stop. Stopping doesn’t make you a bad mom. In fact, stopping makes you a good mom. And a good Julia.

I wish I could give you a hug. A really big one. (And only after buying you an effective air conditioner for that July heat you’re somehow enduring with one crappy AC unit in your entire railroad apartment while your hormones are raging.)

It’s awful what images of motherhood our culture projects. As you will see, much of it is wonderful in ways that are simply hard to believe right now: your daughter will love you back, she will talk to you about interesting and funny and curious ideas; she will ask you to “watch this silly” and make a hilarious dance gesture and face combo just to make you laugh; she will tell you see loves you and ask you to give her “tickle kisses” which means you will get to kiss her cheeks tons of times and they will be so cloud-like it will feel like a prize.

Much of it, however — and especially, most of all right now — is fucking hard. It’s the hardest thing a person can do in many ways. It changes your life right? It changes you. No one prepares you for that. No one offers the mother any sort of mothering when she needs it most. Let me tell you now: you are a warrior whose body is healing from being carved open by a jackass doctor who happened to be on call that day and you’re keeping your baby alive which is the only job anyone should begin to ask of you (and they should be helping too), your body is fueled by insane hormones that are making chocolate and lasagna sound unappealing (how is that even possible?).

Look. It sucks. It does. The constant alarms you’re setting round the clock to wake up your daughter to feed her so she doesn't "starve" (turn some of those alarms off; if she's hungry she will wake herself!). The loss of interest in anything. The postpartum mother’s helper who barely knows you but thinks she knows what’s best for you. The lack of village — hell, the lack of immediate family or even a decent paternity leave for your husband. The relentless and growing hours of no sleep adding up to more anxiety and sadness and desperation and resentment. The day-nights that seem never to end. The jealousy you feel that your husband gets to escape to his job which remains a firm part of his identity. What has been asked of his body and his mind and his days? (Not that he isn’t being supportive in the ways he can; but why is this system like this?) The trying to relate to other moms and yet feeling like they’re judging you on your breastfeeding “failure.”

This moment is a blip in time. It is so short and I wish you could love moments of it because it’s fleeting. That’s something that depression is taking from you. Missing those nice moments. But it’s not your fault. It is never your fault.

Right now I’m writing to you from the subway (G train!) on my way to a new full time job and the major thing I'm wrestling with in my life is not getting to see your daughter enough. We both know you need to be working in a job that rewards you monetarily and creatively. And here you are a few years later doing that (and you’re going to be doing it much sooner than you think). You will have gained weight back and finally four years later sought out a nutritionist who has been helping you shave off the pounds in a healthy self-care-book kind of way. You will have the beginnings of days again. And the ends of them. You will sleep without hearing phantom cries. You will get to spend time with your husband again — sure, not in the same way as before — but in a new way and one that’s filled with a person who you both made and are both raising in common. You will move to a much better apartment — and yes you will crave a nicer place (a house even!) and wish you were “further along” in that part of adulthood but you will also recognize that “further along” is a myth that you’ve bought into and can stop believing now. You will love chocolate and wine and pasta again. You will love TV and film and books again. You will see your friends again. You will take classes again. You will be a new you who is better because that’s just how it works.

I know these seconds feel bone-crushing. I know you’re lying on your bed looking out the window and wishing you could disappear forever into the blue sky and thinking everyone would be better without you. I know you feel like you ruined your life. And your marriage. And your career.

But none of that is true. That’s what depression does to you: hits you when you’re already down.

It will get better.

It will be different. But it will be the right different.

You will get to care for yourself again — and the sooner you can ask for this, the better.

You will get to take uninterrupted showers and shits.

You will make your own art — a short film even!

You will make invaluable lasting friendships with moms that will change you forever.

You will empathize with an entire demographic that you never understood before.

You will even help others who feel like you do now. You will get them and you will tell them that "the only way out is through" and that it gets better — and you will be living proof and you will fucking mean it. Because, past Julia, 2015 Julia, I’m telling you, it’s true.

I love you. Even and especially now. Your friends and family do too even if they can’t understand. They’re trying and they will keep trying.

Your daughter will love you. In a way you can’t yet fathom.

And you will love your daughter. In a way you can’t yet fathom. You will tell her you’re lucky to be her mom. And she will tell you she loves you and to stay forever. And you will — I promise — you will want to.

Love,

Julia 2019