Things Happen For A Reason

Life leads us in the direction we need to go. I've always believed that. I've let the universe lead me, listening for the whispered instruction, watching for the covert signs. As I hit 30, life was a comfortable routine. I was content in my career, enjoyed my domestic life in our cozy home and was comforted and loved in a solid marriage. We traveled, had dinner parties, attended events and enjoyed life without kids.

I had built up an airtight cocoon of friends without silly conflict or superficial drama.

But there was a gnawing sensation, an uncertain anticipation that there was more to come.

It was the calm before the storm.

I will never again underestimate the difficulty that comes from change, even the expected ones; puberty, marriage, moving, motherhood - those transitions in our lives that come easy for some, but are traumatizing for others, leaving an indelible mark on our souls.

In 2005, when my lower leg and ankle snapped in 3 places during a roller hockey game, I had never felt such pain. Nor had I ever confronted such fear before each of my 2 resulting surgeries. My frustration and helplessness during the 10 long weeks on crutches were foreign to me.

But I slowly started to see how each struggle led me to a new place. Each experience allowed me to grow in ways I otherwise wouldn't have been afforded.

During my pregnancy, restricted in activity and movement by my high risk label, I reached back into my psyche and pulled from my past experiences.

During the birth, I didn't fret about the pain because I knew I had survived pain before, and that my body would endure.

However, postpartum depression threw me for a loop. What strength to pull from?

I am nothing if not resourceful, always the person among friends to have a paperclip handy, a band aid in my purse, or an extra pair of sunglasses to lend.

Attempting to raise 2 infants through the fog of depression blurred my skills, but my instincts floated up occasionally, urging me to research methods, tricks and tips for raising twins online.

That is where I found Baby Squared and Jane Roper.

There was a similarity I couldn't quantify, a connectedness that had nothing to do with lifestyle - she's married to a musician and lives across the country in Boston. I'm a soggy Northwesterner through and through, married to a Canadian outdoorsman.

But through the weaving of her words, I found solace, comfort and companionship. The timing was impeccable - she began to open up to her readers about her history with depression at the same time I was confronting my PPD head on.

I had a recent conversation with a long time client, a soft spoken father of 6 that confirmed my belief that people come into your life for a reason; he found unexpected counsel with his dentist, of all people. While reclined in the plastic covered chair that doubled as a psychiatrist's couch, he realized they had experienced similar situations in life - and that connection is cathartic in many ways.

Looking back, I see that I was ignoring other subtle (and not-so-subtle) signs.

My adoration of books won out over my exhaustion and I found Brooke Shields' book Down Came The Rain and read it with interest. Although her experiences felt extreme to me, I still felt akin to the overall theme of her story.

My sister sent me this Goop.com article where Gweneth Paltrow briefly discusses her experience with postnatal depression.

I would skim the notices posted in the ladies room at doctor visits, feeling sympathetic for women that suffer from postpartum depression, but ignoring my own symptoms. I just didn't see myself in the image of the sad woman pushing a stroller. I attributed my fatigue and my anger to the simple fact that I had twins, and not "just" a singleton to care for.

Finally, my good friend and college roommate, a new mom and mental health professional stood before me and simply told me she thought I was depressed. Everything clicked into place as I realized that I wasn't me, the easygoing, fun-loving me that I knew before my pregnancy.

I thank her every chance I get.

While writing this essay, I came across this. Naturally.

(via Little Reminders of Love)