I hear the familiar creak of a door from upstairs, followed by soft footsteps and a hesitant voice calling down to me. “Mom?”
For a moment, I consider pretending I didn’t hear him. It’s late, and he should be fast asleep by now. I should be asleep too, but I succumbed to the guilty pleasure of having the couch all to myself. The call comes again, a bit louder this time: “Mom?”
I imagine him leaning over the banister, and my emotions rise like a tide—irritation that he’s awake, fear that he’ll disturb his siblings, and a nagging worry that feels irrational yet heavy: Is he really okay?
I release my grip from my mug of tea, working to keep my voice steady. “What?”
As soon as I speak, I hear him retreating, his lanky form pulling the door nearly shut behind him. “Nothing,” he shouts back, “I just wanted to make sure you were there.”
“I’m here,” I reply, but it’s almost to myself, as he’s already vanished.
I often remind myself, “I’m here.” Two simple words that have become a mantra, a small prayer of thankfulness I crafted when I was 18 after I struggled with the darkest moments of my life.
Yes, that’s a truth I’ve carried for a long time—the story I haven’t fully shared. How could I have ever considered risking this life I now cherish? What arrogance convinced me I knew better than the universe, that my pain was so profound that I could overlook the gifts yet to come? Gifts like that boy upstairs and the countless other blessings that have followed, even the simple joy of finding peace on my couch tonight.
But that’s just part of the truth. It’s the perspective of a mother in her late 30s who has sought help and slowly put in the work to heal. I’ve found solace in my family, my friendships, yoga, my marriage, and in words. I’ve created enough distance from that dark chapter to truly understand it: the overwhelming worry that once kept me in the shadows.
Back then, I believed my pain was unique, as if no one could possibly understand my feelings. Those thoughts were the lies the darkness whispered to me. I tried to escape the pain using every means possible—food, deprivation, exercise, alcohol, distractions, isolation, even relationships. I was running, and it almost cost me everything.
With time, I learned a vital lesson: pain and joy are inseparable. They coexist—like labor before the child’s birth, the night before dawn, the storms that nourish the earth before the flowers bloom. I tried to avoid pain, wrapping myself in a protective bubble, but it nearly led to my demise.
Life is ever-changing. That beautiful boy upstairs was just a dream when I stood in the messy kitchen of our first apartment, telling my partner, Alex, I was ready to start a family. Now he’s 12 and growing independent, needing me less and less. His siblings are right behind him, and each night, I lean in, brushing their hair from their foreheads, whispering, “I’m here,” almost as if I’m expressing gratitude.
I’m thankful for what I haven’t missed. For the grace that came from my past mistakes. My capacity for joy has expanded every year, making room for new wonders, including pain. Yes, even that. Life is beautiful, and pain is simply part of the journey.
I would gladly endure it all again for the warmth of a sunrise, the comfort of a warm mug in my hands, the exhilaration of a run, a hug from an old friend, or a stranger’s smile in a crowded room. For the moments when life leans over the banister and calls out to me, and I can respond with the most precious prayer of all: “I’m here.”
For more on home insemination, including helpful resources like this one, check out what experts like Mindful Monday have to say. Additionally, NHS offers excellent information for those exploring pregnancy options.
In summary, while the journey through depression can feel isolating, it is essential to recognize that joy and pain are intertwined. Acknowledging both can lead to a fuller, richer experience of life, allowing us to embrace every moment with gratitude.