Where the Fuck Are the Rules Posted?

I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. I’ve gone back and forth between deciding if it’s worth writing about or if it’s still too raw to touch upon.

Whenever I can’t get something out of my head, it’s a signal to me it needs more of my attention, which is why I’m here writing this today.

I have decided I can’t keep quiet. These thoughts will continue to haunt me if I don’t put them down. More so though, the fact I feel so compelled to share what I’m feeling is a smoke signal that other people feel the same.

I need to get this off my chest so others have a chance to read my words and say, “I’m so glad I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

~

Today, I’m talking about the tragedy involving Lindsay Clancy of Duxbury, Massachusetts and her three late children.

I want to make it abundantly clear from the get-go that I am not here to recap the events that unfolded, to make a stance about the legality of the situation, or to have a conversation about the intricacies of what transpired. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, please do your own research and read what is plastered everywhere online.

When you’re done with that, you can come back to this. Everything I am about to share was triggered by that tragedy, so I am expecting you to have a foundational understanding of the situation before continuing with me here.

Alas. Buckle up.

A few weeks ago, when the tragedy made the news, my girl friends’ group chat went off. I was in France at the time, a world away from home—physically and mentally. My friends didn’t divulge any of the brutal facts, sparing everyone in the group chat pure and utter horror.

Being immersed in a totally different experience, I decided to disregard what was being said. I knew something horrific had happened by the way my friends were talking, but I was not in the headspace to get into the weeds of what they were specifically referring to.

For a week or so, I stayed out of the conversations. I knew very little about what had happened because I was busy doing a lot of other things, but if I’m being honest with you, I was also terrified to read the news. Absolutely terrified.

It wasn’t until I had left the chateau I was staying at and was on a metro in Paris that I faced what I couldn’t avoid any longer. I was headed back to my hotel after dinner one night when I was scrolling the internet and decided I needed to educate myself on what had happened.

And just as I had suspected, I was so gut-wrenchingly sick I had to stop myself from continuing to read more.

If you think I was nearly physically ill because every bone in my empathetic body was distraught for the people directly involved, including Lindsay Clancy, you are right. I sobbed thinking of those babies, of the husband, of the grandparents, and of Lindsay. Snot running onto my lips, blue in the face kind of crying. I simply have no words.

But I am not here to add my two cents to an already incredibly scrutinized public tragedy.

I am here to mourn the future I once only ever looked forward to.

For the last few weeks, I have been trying to come to terms with something I never thought twice about. I have been wishy-washy about everything there is to be wishy-washy about in life. My career, my future husband, where I’ll live, if I’ll have a dog, when I’ll settle down, what I want out of life—you name it, I’ve second guessed it.

The only thing I have never, not once, thought twice about was that I was put on this earth to be a mother. (Amongst many other things, of course.)

Since I was a little girl, I knew I wanted children. At one point in time, I wanted two, but somewhere along the way, as I grew more of a connection to my maternal instincts, I knew I wanted more—four or five. A big family. Lots of love.

Although I questioned what my future would look like on so many levels, one thing remained true: when looking at my future through a maternal lens, I was only ever completely euphoric.

For years I’ve dreamt of being pregnant, carrying my children, creating their bodies bone by bone within my womb. I’ve day-dreamed about breastfeeding, swaddling, bathing, soothing, and loving my children to the greatest extent of my being.

I have this ingrained drive to accomplish everything I have planned for my life to feel whole and fulfilled on my own, but I have never just pursued my ambitions for me. I have always done it with my future children in mind, too.

I have a deep-seated desire to live a big life so I can lead my children by example. I want to be able to point to times in my own life when they have questions about their own and say, “Look, if mommy can do it, you can, too.”

In a nutshell, I care about myself, but I care WAY more about my children who aren’t even born yet—who only, on some level, half exist. The ones I am strengthening from the inside out as we speak to be equipped to handle the hardships and delicacies of this thing we call life.

Every good thing I have consciously done thus far is to prepare myself to be the best mom I can be one day. That is the bottom line.

At 16 years old I wrote letters to my unborn children. I don’t remember everything I wrote, but I did tell them I was consciously making choices at 16 to be the best mom I could be for them.

16 years old. I am 26 years old today. My desire to be a mom has only multiplied since then.

~

With that said, I am outraged. I am terrified. I am hurt. I am at a loss.

I have been capable of childbearing for over a decade. For 10+ years my body has been physically capable of carrying a child. 10 years.

It’s at 26 years old, when I could have already had multiple children by now, that I am just learning about how serious and prevalent postpartum depression and anxiety is. How severe it can get. How detrimental it can be.

How? How can that be?

Why did it take a bloody tragedy for me to find this out? Why did it take three babies’ lives for me to understand how real the effects of PPD can be?

Why did I have to read account after account after account of women pouring their hearts out talking about how much they suffered. How alone they were. How helpless they felt when they were going through it themselves.

Hundreds—if not, thousands—of women coming forward to share their stories.

I don’t say this lightly: I am destroyed by the fact that I felt so ignorant for only looking euphorically forward to the future, while this entire time, the reality of what could happen was never taught to me.

And the thing is— I don’t blame anyone. I don’t blame the women who suffered from PPD for not briefing me on their struggles. It is not their responsibility to share one of their hardest battles with the world. They were focused on surviving after childbirth. They don’t owe anyone anything.

Even though I don’t blame any one specifically, it is outright unacceptable I am where I am today and I’m just learning about the realities of being a mother. I’ll say that again.

It is outright unacceptable I am where I am today and I’m just learning about the realities of being a mother.

Not the breastfeeding, swaddling, bathing, soothing, and loving side of motherhood. There has been, and will be, no shortage of platforms showcasing the happy parts of being a new mom.

But the hardships of what hormone imbalances, sleep deprivation, and a range of other symptoms can do to a woman. That’s also part of the realities of being a mom. That—I never see.

I am not the exception to the rule here. It’s not like I am immune to these things—that any of us women are immune to these things. I am the rule. Where the fuck are the rules posted?

~

I have had multiple conversations with many of my friends over the last few weeks, and one theme I have picked up on is how scared most of us are. How in the dark most of us have been. How slighted most of us feel.

And the shittiest thing? It took me several conversations before I felt confident enough to voice how I really felt. To talk about how scared I truly was. I thought I was the only one feeling so unwell and so overwhelmed, but no, I'm not the only one. There are so many of us feeling the same way... but the silence? That's a testament to how often women feel ashamed to talk about what's happening within.

I want to state that I know this is one tragic incident, and just because Lindsay Clancy suffered horribly from PPD doesn’t mean I am going to. I know this is an extreme case. I'm well aware.

But the fact that I never knew how many women suffer from PPD and how bad it can get feels like I was cheated. That I was left hanging, uninformed, and disregarded. For what reason? To save face for society?

Spare me. Literally spare me.

~

When I say I have been mourning my future, I don’t mean I only look at my childbearing years ahead through a pessimistic perspective. I, obviously, only hope for and want the best. That goes without saying.

However, I feel like a part of me has shattered. I suppose I am thankful for this awakening because it sheds me of ignorance, but this transition does not come without a grievance period. Call me naive, but I don’t think this one is on me after having extensive conversations with a lot of women my age, most of us feeling this collective uneasiness about the side of motherhood we were never fully briefed on.

~

I don’t intend to end this post on a positive note. Life doesn’t always have a happy ending.

It pains me that I, as well as so many other women my age, am just learning these truths.

It pains me we fail women on so many fronts in our society.

It pains me I almost didn’t write this because I was worried it was going to seem too charged.

It pains me I don’t look forward to my future children without a wince of, “what if” anymore.

And if you haven’t gathered it by now, I’ll spell it out for you:

Our life-bearing beings—the women of our world—deserve more. A fuck ton more.