It’s not all good in the (mother)hood

It’s pretty tough, motherhood, isn’t it? Even for a woman who, on the outside, looks
like she’s got her shit not only together, but tied up in a gift box with a pretty bow. To
quote the great philosophers of Love Island 2017, ‘on paper’, my life is perfect.
And somehow, I found myself with post-natal depression; questioning my marriage,
my life choices, and my happiness. I was miserable, and whilst I didn’t doubt my love
for her, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I had pangs of regret, emptiness and misery like
I’d never felt before.
It’s a bit of a mind fuck to feel lonely and crave being alone at the same time. It’s
more of a mind fuck to know that everything I’d achieved – personally, professionally
and other – is what society tells you is absolute #lifegoals and I still wasn’t satisfied.
So, why was I miserable? Why did I need counselling and medication, just to get
through the week? Why the fuck, when I had a perfect, healthy and happy little girl, a
big house, a nice car, a loving family and a gorgeous husband, was I not ‘living my
best life’?
I’d say I don’t know, but I do, of course I do.
Your life flips on its head when you become a mum – the world as we know it falls
out through your arse (or, more anatomically, your front bum) and you become the
single most important thing in the life of a vulnerable, needy and helpless little
person. It’s all-encompassing, it’s suffocating and it’s relentless. And when the
visitors die down and the novelty of your new addition wears off for the rest of the
world, you are left holding the baby. You.
The world tells you to be eternally grateful, happy, and overjoyed with this prospect.
They literally tell you that you must ‘enjoy every moment because it goes too fast’,
but nobody tells you that it’s fine to grieve the pre-baby lifestyle, the banging body or
the freedom to shower whenever the fuck you want. Not one person told me ‘it’s shit
at times, you know?’

I truly believe that if we normalised the conversations around post-partum
depression, and I’m not just talking about the day 3 ‘baby blues’, then at least maybe
we would stop punishing ourselves for finding it tough.
Yes, I had post-natal depression. Yes, I took anti-depressants, and yes, I went to
counselling. Oh, and yes, I’ve raised a phenomenal little girl, written two books,
returned to work and kept all of us alive during the pandemic that I refuse to mention
in this book.
It’s not easy to take the first step and talk to someone; God, I spoke more about my
vagina in the last book than I did about mental health. So I get it. And I know that it’s
even harder to accept help when your mind is programmed to believe that we have
to live up to this fucking Supermum pretence that simply does not exist.
If you’re reading this now and have felt less than great about life, maybe cried more
than you’d like or just don’t feel like you anymore, my inbox is open.
It really is OK to not be OK.

An excerpt from Mum’s the Word 2: it’s all shits and giggles

Out May 1 st - you can get your copy here 

Rebecca’s first book is available to buy now on Amazon: Mum’s the Word 

@bookmumstheword