I’m sitting on the bench, this time with my pants on, at my midwife’s office.
I’m here because I’m certain I’m off and completely uncertain about what I need to fix it.
Or if I need to fix it.
Or if I can fix it.
Or if it’s even fixable.
I’m here for a postpartum depression evaluation.

And I’m embarrassed. And I’m embarrassed that I’m embarrassed because I’m like ALLLLL about emotions and emotional health.

But turns out, when it happens to you, it’s still freaking hard to call your doctor, hear the sympathy of the receptionist, sniff softly as you answer the nurse’s questions, and sob into your hands immediately once you get off the phone.

And then once you’ve got the appointment, on to making childcare arrangements because life isn’t as easy as getting in the car and going where you need to go. So, you ask family who has already been helping with the load to help some more. And you ask your supportive husband to leave work early so you can go to an appointment that you know will leave you with a vulnerability hangover but you aren’t confident will hold the answers you need.

So as I sat there, sweating through my sweatshirt, I tried not to think too hard about how I knew I’d burst into tears the second the midwife asked how I was, how I’d answer her questions honestly but with the hope that she’d really see me, and how I wouldn’t feel like I had to justify my feelings or my reality for her to see what was really going on.

And then she came in with an intern, because vulnerability always feels better with a large audience, and everything it took to get to this moment feels worth it because you are here and you are waving your white flag for help.

And you cry and they both listen and hand you a tissue. And then you listen as she affirms what an amazing mother you are and how normal this is and how you didn’t/aren’t doing anything wrong.

And you know it’s her job, but damn, do you feel seen and relieved and like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding has been released in you. You feel deflated in the best sort of way, ready for what’s next.

And then she writes you a prescription for an anti-depressant and you’re so relieved but also apprehensive because you haven’t been on one before, and the unknown is scary and it feels a little too easy. Isn’t it supposed to be hard forever and ever amen?

But as she talks to you about how the drug is safe for breastfeeding moms and talks about the low dosage you’ll start at, you start to gain some hope—hope that life actually could be a little lighter. That your baseline low point could actually be higher so then when life/PMS/difficult kids/dramatic relationships happen and you take a dip, you don’t feel like you’re falling into the abyss.

She hugs you and tells you to take your time. You attempt to wipe off the little mascara you’d taken the time to put on this morning. You grab your coat and head to the elevators.

A pill won’t fix everything. But it may give you a shot at navigating life without feeling the weight of every anxiety, fear, and darkness you’ve been shouldering for months. It may be forever, but it may not.

But you, dear mama, are worth it. Not just for your children or husband or family or job or whatever relationships or responsibilities you have. This is worth it because you are a person first and foremost. And your personhood matters.

Bravo to you, scared mama. I’m so freaking proud of you for every damn difficult step it took to get you here.

-Brooke Bohinc

Brooke is a mompreneur, navigating motherhood while running an editing and writing business. Few things make her happier than honest words, deep connections, and dark chocolate. Learn more about Brooke on her website: www.brookeelleninc.com.