And then, one

Reflections on a momentous year.

Hi, friends. I was planning to write today’s newsletter about something else. But as I started—and kept getting stuck—I considered how momentous this week is, and how much I needed to process it. So I wrote this letter to myself instead.

Dear Katie,

On Friday, your daughter will turn one. When you ask, “How old are you?” she responds with a triumphant finger jabbed into the air. She has no idea what this means, but she knows that it is cute and makes you smile.

Friday is not just the anniversary of her birth. It is also the anniversary of the day you gave birth. This, too, deserves celebrating—or, at least, some serious reflection. Perhaps you can reflect on the fact that it still feels strange to say or type that you “gave birth,” considering that your daughter was born via emergency C-section. A year later, you still sometimes feel like that phrase is reserved for the women who delivered vaginally.

But you did give birth. And you went through a lot to get there. You said goodbye to your beloved dog as you prepared to say hello to a baby. You carried your daughter in your miraculously growing belly for nine months. And you spent the majority of your pregnancy in a pandemic. A year later, you still sometimes get sad about the things you missed—a normal baby shower, the opportunity for friends and family to feel the baby kick, the experience of walking through a store and hearing strangers ask whether it's a boy or girl. 

The night of your due date, you went to the hospital, a place that brings up terrible memories of losing your husband and losing your dad. You were scared something was also going to go wrong this time—and then it did. After the induction process began, the nurse told you to settle in for a long night. Within minutes, though, your water broke and your baby’s heart rate started dropping dangerously. A team of nurses rushed in, you were whisked away for surgery, and you prayed and prayed that this hospital visit wouldn’t end in disaster, too.

Thankfully, it didn’t. Giving birth was scary and traumatic, and not at all what you hoped it would be. But in the end, you and your daughter survived. The chaos of the operating room calmed down and, amazingly, you, Billy, and baby were now a family of three. A year later, you still sometimes think about how alone and scared you felt in that operating room, and how, after the baby was born, there was no room for sadness—only socially-accepted joy.

Suddenly, you were a mom. You were forever bonded to and responsible for this little being, a tiny baby who could barely keep her eyes open. Some things took a while, like getting the hang of breastfeeding and feeling like you were truly a mother. But other things were immediate, like knowing how to hold your baby and seeing how much she craved being close to you.

You made it home from the hospital. Then, three weeks later, you went back to the hospital—a different one, for a different reason. This time, you were deep in postpartum psychosis. You spent three nights away from Billy and your baby, time spent mostly in a bare room with nothing to do but sleep. But you did sleep, and slowly, your grasp on reality returned.

This, too, was a hospital visit that didn’t end in disaster. It was one that society might deem as shameful or embarrassing, but you have worked hard to cope with and accept what happened. You know that seeking psychiatric support was brave. It was the right thing to do. A year later, you still sometimes wish it was acknowledged as such; that it was not just an event that most people seem to avoid discussing with you out of discomfort.

In many ways, your first month of motherhood paved the way for years to come. You now know, more than ever, how important—and precarious—your mental health is. You are committed to facing past traumatic events; the work you’re doing with your therapist today will benefit you (and your daughter!) for the rest of your life. And you are more grateful than ever for the light moments, of which there are plenty.

Looking back, the past year has been one largely marked by joy. It is a year of silly songs and sweet milestones. It is a year of weekend hikes and family selfies. It is a year of calls with grandma and play dates with neighbors. It is a year of playing and learning and laughing and growing.

It is also a year of struggle. Of sleepless nights and creeping anxieties and a pandemic with seemingly no end. It is all of these things, yes, and it is still—still!—a year largely marked by joy.

I hope you feel proud, Katie. I hope you look at your happy, thriving, no-longer-a-baby baby, and realize how lucky you are. I hope you make time to hug Billy and soak in the magnitude of the day. And I hope that someone asks you how many children you have, just so you have the opportunity to thrust a triumphant finger into the air.

One. And she is amazing.

xoxo
KHG

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My Sweet Dumb Brain is written by Katie Hawkins-Gaar. It’s edited by Rebecca Coates. Photo by Angèle Kamp on Unsplash.