By Bethany Broderick
@bethanygbroderick

My sweaty palms turned the steering wheel to park my minivan in front of a local walking trail. I reached for my water bottle, hoping the weight of the liquid would settle the butterflies in my stomach. The nervous nausea reminded me of times I stood by my front door waiting for a first date to arrive. Only, now, instead of checking my lipstick in the mirror and smoothing my black dress, I checked my messy ponytail and scraped dried spit-up off my black leggings.

This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. You’re just going on a walk with another mom.

A silver SUV pulled up next to me, and I gave an awkward wave. We both began the cumbersome process of unloading strollers, diaper bags, snacks, and our six-month-old daughters. Our conversation started with standard new mom questions: Where do you live? What does your husband do? What did you do before you were a stay-at-home mom?

On the narrow sidewalk that led to the trail, we did a self-conscious dance to see which stroller would go first and stumbled over our attempts at small talk along the way. Our caravan turned the corner onto the main trail where trees bursting with autumn reds, oranges, and yellows provided a covering for the struggling dialogue. Eventually the trail smoothed, and so did our conversation. The initial bumpiness gave way to the deeper issues of new mothers: The inadequacies of low breastmilk supply. The longings for the affirmations found in work outside the home. The fear of doing motherhood all wrong. The loneliness of doing it all alone.

One vulnerable discussion led to another until my newfound friend repeated the two words I had longed to hear for months: “Me too.”

Two miles and a container of puff cereal later, we hugged each other goodbye and loaded our strollers, bags, and daughters back into our respective vehicles with plans to meet again the next week. I called my husband as I pulled out of the parking lot, and like my college roommates awaiting my return from a first date, he asked, “How did it go?”

“She feels the same way I do,” I exhaled, six months of anxiety exiting my body through large drops falling on my yoga pants. “Becoming a mom, leaving behind jobs we loved, struggling to find a rhythm, all of it.”

Everything in my life had changed in the previous six months. My husband and I had our first child, I left my full-time job to stay home, and then we moved across the state so he could begin a new job. For the first time in my life, I spent ten hours a day without any peer conversation. Within the mind-numbing repetition of breastfeeding, naps, and playtime, I tried to assuage the solitude by scrolling Instagram, watching hours of Netflix, and texting any far-off friend I could think of (though often finding I lacked the mental energy to craft a response). One day, I watched my daughter try to push a triangle into the square hole of her shape sorter and realized I was attempting to fill this new void I felt in my life in all the wrong ways.

***

As a woman who craves comfort and control, transition feels like being thrown overboard without the ability to swim. Each time change came my way in life, I’d cling to my prideful self-reliance like sinking driftwood, yet God would graciously send me a life preserver—a friend who helped me learn to stay afloat during each new life stage. Ironically, these friends were almost always named Rachel. While some people mark the seasons of their lives by boyfriends, haircuts, or styles of jeans, I define the chapters of my life by which Rachel was by my side—growing me as a woman from one season to the next.

The first heaven-sent Rachel knocked on the door of my gray cinder block dorm room the day my parents dropped me off at college. My eyes were red and puffy, and she sat quietly with me on my twin bed while I shared the overwhelming pressures I felt to perform in this new environment.

Soon after, I opened the door of my newlywed apartment to my neighbor. This Rachel offered rides to Zumba class and brought over her own pot and recipe when I burned my first home cooked dinner to a crisp. When marriage became more difficult than I had imagined, she handed me tissues and compassionate words of grace.

Later, I met my husband’s classmate and his wife, Rachel, on a double date. She and I both worked full-time while our husbands finished their graduate degrees, and together we carried our mutual burdens of balancing professional ambitions with desires for a family. We held each other and these tensions until the day our husbands graduated. Then we birthed our first babies and both moved away.

As a new mom, I again found myself alone in a new city and a new season of life, and the taupe walls of my house felt as isolating as my gray dorm room. We were visiting a church when I bumped into a mom in the nursery with a daughter the same age as mine. I immediately requested her phone number—my desperate need for a friend outweighing my usual self-conscious timidity. I began inputting her number into my contacts then asked for her name.

“Rachael with an a,” she responded.

I couldn’t believe it. Another Rachael.

“Would you like to meet for a walk?” I asked.

***

The walk with my new Rachael turned into weekly dates at playgrounds, zoos, and splash pads. More than a year into our friendship, we were at our favorite park when I again felt a nervous rock settle in the pit of my stomach. The weather was warm on the early spring morning, and sweat drops beaded up beneath my t-shirt and cardigan. We pushed our toddler daughters on the swing set when she asked, “How have you been?”

The chains screeched rhythmically against the metal hooks, taunting me—daring me—to push the conversation deeper than tips for which potty training method to use. I knew once I voiced aloud what I was feeling, there would be no going back. But I feared that if I didn’t speak now, if I didn’t reach up for help, then the waves might take me under.

I took a deep breath in.

“Well, lately, motherhood has been… ” I hesitated. “Hard.”

She turned to look at me, and I kept going.

“It started with the roadblocks in our adoption process. Then there was the miscarriage,” my words quickened, and her accepting gaze invited me to reveal some of my deepest fears in motherhood—and in my faith. I spoke for a full five minutes without interruption before finally admitting, “I don’t know if I was cut out for this. I just can’t keep it all together.”

I exhaled and focused on the rubber playground floor, hoping somehow it could soften the blow of her response. She must think I’m the worst mother in the world.

“Me too, friend,” she replied.

She identified with a few of my struggles then shared more of hers, and the conversation went deeper and higher with every push of the infant swing seats. By the time we finished our conversation, the sun was high and our daughters were hungry. Having shed our cardigans and inhibitions, we hugged and scheduled another playdate for the next week.

Soon we were meeting regularly in each other’s homes, sharing the unfiltered aspects of our motherhood. Each playdate exposed another level of insecurity. Each of us showed another level of grace. Motherhood was still hard, but I no longer felt alone with a kindred spirit only three miles and a text away.

***

The three miles between us turned into an ocean when the global pandemic hit a year later. I was sinking—and pregnant. No friendship can survive this, I thought and girded myself for an isolating and indefinite season of quarantine. We were lounging on the couch—I slept off morning sickness while my daughter watched yet another episode of Daniel Tiger—when the doorbell rang. Expecting it to be one of many Amazon deliveries, I was surprised to find a construction paper card and bag of homemade cookie dough on the doorstep.

You’re invited to a Skype tea party tomorrow at 11 a.m., Rachael had written alongside her daughter’s colorful scribble. I made it back to the couch before I started weeping, pregnancy hormones intensifying the release of pent-up emotions. A month into the loneliest season of my life, I had given up any hope of maintaining friendships during a pandemic. Yet here again, my friend Rachael reached out and reminded me that I never had to endure dark seasons alone. Friendship during “unprecedented times” would take creativity, intentionality, and a 3-pack of Target masks, but we would make it through together.  

The next morning, I placed a plastic tea set on the dining room table across from my laptop. Unsure how to interact on a video chat, our two-year-old daughters contentedly ate chocolate chip cookies while Rachael and I unburdened our anxieties: The fear of giving birth during a pandemic, guilt from keeping our toddlers away from family and friends, mental exhaustion from trying to keep up with the news, and emotional fatigue of never getting a break. She offered no solutions or pithy comfort, just a nod of the head and words of solidarity.

I never could have anticipated a season like this past year—wave after wave of transitions. Yet Rachael was there with her hand outstretched to lift me up. With an encouraging text. With a Starbucks latte left on the doorstep. With a simple “Me too” via Zoom.

My friendships today look different than they did during college, in our newlywed apartment, at my first job, and before a global pandemic. Yet all these sweet friends—and others like them—have taught me that no matter the life stage, I need friendship. I need a safe place to be vulnerable. I need someone who will simply listen and nod. Further, I need to be that person for others as well.

More periods of transition await me. Our family will move again, we might add more babies, and we will certainly face hardship. But instead of going through it alone, I can reach out to grab the hand of another woman running alongside me. And even if we end up running down different paths, we will cherish those steps we took together, cheering for one another, even if only for a season.

Guest essay written by Bethany Broderick. Bethany lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with her husband, three-year-old daughter, and infant son. A recovering perfectionist, she writes about finding God’s grace in the everyday moments of life as a woman, wife, and mother. She is on the blog contributor team at The Joyful Life and has featured articles at Risen Motherhood and Deeply Rooted. You can find her words on her personal blog and on Instagram .

Photo by Lottie Caiella.