Ready or Not

On motherhood and shame

Fresh coat of creamy beige paint? Check. An area rug to add warmth and texture? Check. Assembled crib? Check. Baby clothes washed in Dreft detergent and neatly put away? Check and check. The spare bedroom I stand in is forever changed, just as I am. The decor is gender-neutral, but I’ve already been mentally preparing for a girl—I just know it. Leaning against the doorway, I can’t help but admire the transformation. 

As I cross off each item from my mental checklist—white noise machine, swaddles with the velcro closure, Solly baby wrap—my worries and anxieties slash away one by one. My mind is at ease knowing we have a stockpile of diapers in a variety of brands and sizes, just in case. And just the sight of the installed camera for the video baby monitor is reassuring, knowing my husband and I won’t miss a beat.

I continue to walk through the remaining tasks in my head, which are dwindling down by the day. With one hand on my growing belly, I think to myself: It’s only a matter of time, little one. I’m ready.

***

“It’s a boy!” the delivery nurse announces. A boy?! All this time, I convinced myself we were having a girl. I can’t recall why, but that doesn’t matter anymore the second I lay eyes on him. We have a son and he’s here and he’s perfect.

Hours after the delivery, the volume of the world fades away and the darkness of the night settles in. We’re left to get some rest as a new family of three. My husband occupies the couch and I lay in my hospital bed fully awake watching my sweet boy sleep peacefully in the rollaway bassinet beside me. I know I should also sleep, but the adrenaline isn’t letting up. He’s really here. The simple realization is all it takes for my anxiety to rise to the surface. 

How am I supposed to leave the hospital with a newborn in just 24 hours? 

I allow a thought to cross my mind, but don’t dare let the words leave my mouth: I’m not ready to be a mom.

***

My eight-week-old son lies on an enormous hospital bed surrounded by a packed room of emergency department medical staff. His piercing cries and shrieks are deafening. The nurse tries to assure me a crying baby is a breathing baby, but he needs me and I need him. I can’t keep track of all of the staff coming in and out of this tiny room, and as more come in, the more their questions start to feel like an interrogation. 

“When did the symptoms start?” asks yet another nurse. 

Between the constant beeping of the monitors and the rapid pace of the other medical staff, the room becomes more of a blur by the second. I manage to tell the nurse the same thing I told the physician assistant at the walk-in clinic, the same thing I told the EMTs in the ambulance, and the same thing I told the rest of the staff that has been in and out of this room. 

After being forced to recount the events once again, I am pulled back to the present where my reality resembles a nightmare. My son flails around on the bed, screaming as he’s poked and prodded by strangers. I stand against the sterile white wall at the back of the room by myself, only a few feet away, but it feels more like miles.

***

“So how are you feeling this week?” my therapist asks gently over the phone. Sitting alone in the comfort of my home office, I let my eyes wander between my work computer and the window overlooking our backyard as I search for the right words.

While there are years between then and now, the memory remains fresh in my mind as if it all unfolded yesterday. How do I describe the weight I am carrying around with me? From the weeks I let pass by when I didn’t know my son was struggling to breathe, to the emergency department visits, the ambulance ride, and the NICU admission that eventually led to multiple specialist visits and finally his surgery? How do I begin to chip away at the shame that has been building for years, or the trauma that has undeniably impacted my mothering?

Instead of a direct response, I manage to answer her question with a question. One that has been haunting me for the majority of my motherhood: They say a mother knows best, right? So why didn’t I?

“Who decided to get your son the help he needed?” she asks, already knowing where my question stems from.

“I did. But I should have sooner,” I add.

“You got your son the help he needed despite previous (false) medical diagnoses,” she begins. While she continues to speak, I can’t help but allow my eyes to gaze across the hall into my son’s bedroom. “I know you carry guilt for not getting him help sooner, but what matters is that you did and he is okay because of you.” 

Her words lift a weight that has been on my chest for the last four years. I feel as if I can breathe in deep, life-giving air that I have been depriving myself of. Tears well in my eyes and instead of repressing them, I allow them to fall. 

In that space of release, everything shifts. My mind is dizzy with the existing thoughts I’ve held on to for so long—the ones of inadequacy and failure as a mom. As these personal beliefs spiral out of control and begin to fade ever so slightly, a new thought takes shape.

Instead of living a life of shame because of past events, I realize it’s time to give myself grace. 

Inhale. It’s time. Exhale. I’m ready.