Unfit
By Allie King
@alliehking
“You’re going to imagine you’re an invisible bystander watching a scene take place,” my therapist says.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat and nod. I’m a year-and-a-half postpartum with our firstborn, and my therapist and I have spent the last few months untangling my undiagnosed postpartum mood disorder from my first year of motherhood. I tell her I can’t let go of my failures, all the times my own mind has kept me from being the mother I wanted to be. The scenes—hallmark moments that felt terrifying instead of blissful, simple tasks that took hours instead of minutes, and dark nights when I cried instead of slept—play in my mind like a movie on repeat.
She explains how the brain replays painful memories as a defense mechanism to protect itself from future pain. She asks me to choose a memory that has replayed in my mind, then ground my feet squarely on the floor. “Relax your shoulders, close your eyes, and breathe until you can see the memory,” she guides me.
When I shut my eyes and exhale, it’s as if I’m peeking around the nursery door, watching myself—only hours home from the hospital—try to latch my son onto my breast. He writhes in my arms, whipping his head back and forth, screaming. I’m drenched in both sweat and tears as I try to comfort him and breathe through the pain.
“Okay, now I want you to enter into the scene as yourself,” she says. “Go back. Be her. See what she sees; feel what she feels.”
In my mind, I’m in that glider, in the corner of the room I’ve painstakingly organized and decorated. The body that carries me feels as foreign as the baby in my arms. My bones ache, and my mind reels from the wretched combination of sleep deprivation and a traumatic delivery. I’ve already decided I’m failing motherhood’s three most basic duties: feeding, comforting, and loving.
Trapped in this bright, white nursery with its natural-toned wood and perfectly placed accessories, I feel like a scantily clad sinner locked in a church with a fully-robed choir. I want to set the strange, screaming human in the extra-plush glider and run out the front door, escaping this world where I feel like I don’t belong.
With each set of tiny screams, my pulse throbs in my ears until my body shakes with sobs. My husband, hearing my cries, rushes across the house.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his eyes as wide as the wailing newborn’s.
I can’t do this, I think. I want to run away. I’m not fit to be a mother. But instead of telling him the truth, I plaster a smile across my face.
“I think it’s just hormones,” I say, shooing him away with a flip of my wrist. When he leaves the room, I chastise myself: What’s wrong with you? Get a hold of yourself. Get a hold of these thoughts.
The intensity of the scene I’m imagining begins to overtake my present body. Tears fall from my closed eyes. I don’t bother to wipe them. My therapist tells me to open my eyes and come back to the present.
“What do you feel for the woman in the scene?” she asks.
Tears stream down my face. A bottomless ache fills the space behind my sternum. My head drops, my blurry eyes settle on my feet, and my throat tightens. It’s as if I’m just seeing her—seeing me—for the first time. A brand-new mother, alone and ashamed, heaping judgments on her broken mind and body. A brand-new mother, waging war against her fears, unaware she’s fighting on a diseased battlefield.
“Compassion,” I say softly, raising my head.
“Yes, Allie,” she whispers, nodding, “so much compassion.” She pauses a beat, then meets my gaze. “You won’t experience healing until you can surrender these perceived failures—until you can come to terms with them.” I notice the urgency in her typically calm voice. “Until you can come to terms with yourself.”
***
I am one year postpartum with our second-born child, Lila, at a checkup with my psychiatrist. My medications are finally stabilized, and instead of feeling agitated and hopeless, I’m beginning to feel more like myself. I arrive at the appointment feeling steady, even confident. But then my doctor begins asking questions.
How are you handling the overwhelm when they both cry? Are you able to practice breathing techniques when you’ve hit max capacity? How often do you leave the house with both kids?
With each answer, I feel a little less steady, a little less confident. Her final question sticks with me for months to come. I’ve always wanted three children, but she couldn’t have known that when she asked.
You’re using a birth control method, right?
Although she’s only addressing the present, I feel like she’s making a judgment for my entire future.
***
We’ve just moved to a new city and new-to-us house. My husband tries to work from home while I unpack our kitchen, which is lined, wall-to-wall, with boxes. A serviceman works in the guest room beside the kitchen, trying to set up our internet.
Noah, now three, is terrified of the jolly internet technician and clings to my leg like an extra appendage, intermittently crying. I try to stay calm and unruffled by his neediness, but each time he fumbles over a box or lets out a shrill whine, the angst rises in my chest. Meanwhile, fifteen-month-old Lila crawls into every corner of the very dirty house I still haven’t cleaned, the belly of her white shirt no longer white. Each time I lose sight of her, I find her with scissors or packing bubbles or some other unpacking necessity she could hurt herself with. Every time I’m forced to take a dangerous item from her, she screams, which makes Noah scream, which makes me want to scream.
I’m thinking about giving up on unpacking altogether when the serviceman peeks out of the guest room to ask where he might cut a hole in the wall.
“Will the furniture stay like this in here?” he asks.
I fumble over my words. “Well if it stays a guest room, then yes, the queen bed would need to stay there and the dresser there.” I gesture spastically while my son presses his entire body weight into the backs of my knees. My daughter screams for me. “But if it was a nursery, uh, then a crib might need to go there, and a changing table there, and …”
The poor man just stares at me. By the time I collect my thoughts to give him a definitive answer, my husband comes around the corner. Both kids are crying at my feet, and I’m visibly overwhelmed. He looks at me, then down at them, assessing the situation.
“Go ahead and cut the hole behind the bed,” my husband says. “We can worry about it later if we need to.” He smiles down at me with knowing eyes, but instead of receiving his solidarity, I hear my own criticism: You’re failing with two kids. Why would you ever need to turn the guest bedroom into a nursery?
***
A few months later, we’re beginning to feel settled in our new home, our new town. Lila is eighteen months old now—the age Noah was when I got pregnant with her—and thoughts of a third child bounce around in my head.
One day while my husband’s working and Noah’s occupied, I walk outside with Lila. She’s still a bit unsteady on her feet, but I feel comfortable enough to let her toddle around while I’m nearby. That is, until I turn around for three seconds and she trips on the patio step, landing square on one of her front teeth.
We’re both soaked in blood and tears when we finally arrive at our new pediatric dentist. Hi, hello, nice to meet you, sorry about the blood trail!
I sit in the waiting room with my hysterical daughter, my back dripping with sweat and my heart racing with worry, mentally berating myself.
Just look at you right now! Look at your child! How could you even consider adding another?
***
I don’t mean to do it. It isn’t a conscious choice I make, walking around judging myself. But at some point, I realize that’s what I’m doing. I’m keeping a list of failures, filing them away for the case I’m building against myself.
I’ve always done this. It’s just that my lists used to have accomplishments, too—always meets deadlines; cooks healthy dinners; runs three times a week—enough positives to keep the scale balanced, enough achievements to convince myself I was a capable human being. But because I don’t consider expert at explosive diapers and proficient at disgusting laundry to be achievements, my motherhood case file only holds a disappointing stash of complaints.
Excuse me, judge, I have plenty of evidence. This woman is unfit to be a mother of three.
***
It’s been three years since my therapist first introduced me to the work of self-compassion, and I still struggle to practice it. Sometimes I catch my self-critical thoughts before they become fully formed beliefs, but other times it takes someone else’s voice to disrupt my inner narrative. I’m still working on it.
Noah is almost five now, and Lila is two-and-a-half. Our city isn’t so new anymore, and neither is our neighborhood. After dinner one night, we’re on a family walk when a neighbor slows down, her arm draped out her open car window.
“If your family were any cuter, I’d put a bow on y'all,” she says with a wink.
My mind wants to negate her words. You should’ve seen us trying to get everyone dressed an hour ago!
But on this evening, instead of responding with self-deprecation, the corners of my mouth turn up, and I thank my neighbor. And as she drives away, spring’s balmy air seems to invigorate my pale winter cheeks. I watch our shadows walk down the street. I watch the way my husband’s broad shoulders push the double stroller, where both kids are nestled inside. I watch the way my body moves easily and in sync, tucked under his tall frame, just a hair to the right. And finally, I can see outside the case I’ve built against myself.
My mind flashes back—to the exhausted mother with a high-needs two-year-old and a constant-needs baby; to the resilient mother of two toddlers moving her entire life and family to a new city; to the brave mother carrying her bleeding daughter into an unfamiliar doctor’s office—and I have compassion for her.
I feel the weight of these years settle on my chest, then dissipate, like a wave meeting the shore. Relief overcomes me as if I’m victoriously leaving the courthouse, case file in hand. Dismissed, it reads in bold red letters.
We keep walking. I keep walking. I’m not sure what’s ahead, but I’m starting to surrender all that is behind.
Guest post written by Allie King. Allie lives in East Tennessee with her husband and two children. She’s passionate about baked goods and mental health, belly laughs and the way God moves. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her walking to the library with her little ones or lost in deep conversation with a friend. Find more of her words on Substack or Instagram.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.