Who are you when you're healing
lost in the beauty of love
Yesterday my daughter and I listened to 70s jazz and danced to Love Train, circling around the living room.
Later on, we went outside into the yard and stood under the pomegranate tree. She looked with curiosity at the red-orange blossoms, the evergreen leaves and stuck her hand out, reaching and eventually grabbing onto a few of the youngest leaves. I apologized to the tree, as she pulled ever so swiftly and grasped onto the tender, young leaves.
I marveled at her strong grip.
Actually, I am awed by everything she does, not just because I’m her mother (I guess that’s a given) but because I find it so amazing to see a tiny person grow before my eyes.
She didn’t know how to reach for things a month ago. She didn’t know how to roll 2 months ago. She surely didn’t smile, giggle or squeal, 3 months ago. Today she was blowing raspberries, kicking fiercely, giddy with joy. Apparently, this seemingly non-consequential action is a stepping stone towards language.
Last night, as J (my partner) was climbing ever so quietly into bed, he whispered to me: I can’t believe she’s real.
Last December, life seemed like it was at a standstill. Baby was 6 days past due. My pregnancy was considered high-risk, and despite my attempts at waiting things out in the hopes of baby arriving on her own terms, the doctors scheduled an induction. We had just moved into our new home, stuff was still in boxes, and I hadn’t slept more than 4 hours at a time. I was crying on our couch the night before I had to go the hospital.
The induction was scheduled for the following evening, and I was petrified. I was so fearful of not coming home with a baby. I was terrified of something going wrong. And this may sound strange, but I was also so scared of disappointing a slew of family members, friends, and neighbors who were also eagerly awaiting the arrival of our daughter.
It was a culmination of a rather stressful pregnancy (there were a TON of joyful and glowy moments, don’t get me wrong) but because I live with generalized anxiety, I was pretty fearful every step of the way:
is she developing okay?
is her heartbeat normal?
when should i tell my friends or family?
am i eating the right things?
will i have a miscarriage?
oh no! i woke up on my back, did that cut off the circulation to her heart?!
And on and on and on… J and my therapist took the brunt of it.
Every Sunday, I would check how big she was in relation to a fruit/vegetable. Slowly she grew from a sesame seed, to a blueberry to a mango to a honeydew. I breathed a sigh of relief every week that passed.
About a month into our postpartum journey, I was in the kitchen warming up some water in the tea kettle. I had a wave of anxiety wash over me and I felt scared. I didn’t think I could handle this life. And dare I say, I had a tinge of regret.
The life that I once knew was gone.
And now I was responsible for another human. I felt such a heavy weight on my shoulders, afraid of fucking things up. Not just in this moment but in her entire life.
I had wished so long for this baby and now that she was here, all I wanted was to pull the covers over my head and hide. (I now know that I was dealing with a semblance of postpartum depression.)
I felt really lonely those first couple months, despite help from our postpartum doula (who I leaned on a lot while I healed), a postpartum support group I joined (from the encouragement of my therapist), and my friends and partner who were there ready and waiting to listen.
Still, I closed myself off.
The complicated birth that I had endured and the consequential healing that had to take place was something I alone could only process. And that took time.
Something else also helped along the way, finding my way back to writing, and coming upon this question in my email inbox one morning, How do I keep going?
At the time, reading that newsletter felt like a balm to my soul. A warm hug and a kind voice whispering that everything was going to be okay. (And it is, I’m typing this right now, with rain sounds and ethereal music as our soundtrack, while baby naps next to me.)
I finally have the spaciousness, almost 6 months into this journey, to write my own How do I keep going personal-manifesto — thank you, Lisa, for the inspiration and encouragement.
Also, I can’t help but share this beautiful excerpt:
“I have asked myself this question over and over throughout my life. At times, the question has come close to being a life-or-death inquiry; other times, it is a simple question meant to help me get through a boring task I don’t want to do. I ask myself: How do I keep going when life is brutal? When it’s glorious, or repetitive, or piercing? How do I keep showing up to be in and of the world, even when doing so requires me to bring myself more alive and, in turn, closer to actually feeling it all?” — Lisa Olivera
How do I keep going?
Listen to 70s jazz. Dance to Love Train by the Ojays and circle around the living room with your child in your arms. Surround yourself with rain sounds and peaceful, ambient music when it’s time for a nap. Cook breakfast to a latin morning coffee playlist and remind yourself of how much you love your second mother tongue. Rediscover your love for Natalia LaFourcade’s voice. Play your favorites on repeat. Shake, bend and sway. Dance in the kitchen while eating a cheesy quesadilla.
How do I keep going?
Remember that it’s May and strawberries are now in season. Take a trip to the farmer’s market and try the juiciest, freshest and sweetest berries. Slice them up and let your daughter taste one of your favorite fruits, maybe she’ll grow to love them too. Summer is fast approaching and you can feel that shift — the days are getting longer, warmer and you can’t wait to spend more time outside with others, soaking up the sun’s rays.
How do I keep going?
Believe in magic. The most magical moments are in the ordinary. In your daughter’s smile. In the full moon rising. In watching the spotted ground squirrel running through your yard (he’s so different than the other gray squirrels), you refer to him as the magical squirrel. Make wishes on puffy dandelions. On coins thrown into fountains and ponds. When it’s 11:11 or 12:34. Crack open a fortune cookie and play those lucky numbers and let the fortune serve as your reminder, why yes, there is pleasure to be found by the seashore.
How do I keep going?
Trust your body. Be kinder to your thighs, hips, and soft belly — they carried life and she breathes outside of you now. Right next to you. Go to the beach (don’t hide!) and wear that swimsuit because your body deserves to exist too. You grew up on diets, don’t let your daughter grow up on them too. Eat quickly while standing, sometimes. Scroll on your phone before bed, sometimes. Eat a frozen waffle with a huge pat of butter and drench it in maple syrup, sometimes. I promise you that wellness doesn’t exist in perfectionism. You’re allowed to redefine it. Don’t just do it for her, do it for 23 year old you (who had bulimia, body dysmorphia and was very, very, very afraid.)
How do I keep going?
Allow yourself to feel the depths of your emotions. Embrace the slow and steady inhale just as much as the exhale. Breathe into the edges of your body. Catch your breath at the sound of beautifully melodic music like Clair de Lune or Agape. Beauty wrapped up in sound. Worry that a spider might be on your daughter’s face, run over and remove it only to realize it’s a tiny piece of lint, and watch her smile back at you. Some worries are unfounded. Sigh, chant, scream, sing — just like baby is exploring the range of her vocal chords, you should too. Don’t stay quiet just because it’s expected of you.
How do I keep going?
Nurture your hobbies, the ones you’ve left behind. The ones you think you no longer have time for, you do. Bake a galette with the ripest strawberries. Don’t save the best for last, eat it now or you risk things spoiling. Bake the banana bread, make that jam, preserve those lemons. Soak in the abundance and love that exists through food. Share it with your lovely neighbor and your friends. Spread that love like wild blueberry preserves on toasted sourdough.
How do I keep going?
Read. Instill a love for reading and the library into your daughter. It is one of your most comforting places, go weekly and borrow books. Reading Eric Carle counts just as much as Toni Morrison. Reading the shortest poem counts. Fall in love with other writers who blend words so beautifully. Write those words down, let them remind you of the beauty that exists in a story, in a song, in a haiku.
How do I keep going?
Dance, walk, bounce, move. Stretch. Stretch before you get out from bed. Stretch before you go to bed. Stretch before scrolling. Unclench your jaw. Roll your shoulders. Soften. There is still room to spread your arms and embrace, not just your daughter but also yourself. Close your eyes and give yourself a hug. Breathe. Spaciousness relaxes things.
How do I keep going?
When you’re filled with anxiety, whether it feels like the entire day has gone awry or even if it’s in the briefest of moments, focus on what’s in front of you, plain and simple. Act like a narrator and speak your actions out loud. Feel the physicality of things (beings/objects). How light Charlie feels in your arms. How heavy your daughter feels against your chest. How holding them can bring you to tears sometimes. You will get lost in your thoughts (this happens DAILY) and the what ifs, the shoulds, the could have beens, the if onlys, will overwhelm you. Come back to what & who is in front of you.
How do I keep going?
Get outside. Into the fresh air, even if only for a few minutes. Go on a walk, slow down for the flowers and the butterflies. Look up at the sky. Let the birds song be your playlist. Look at the world through your daughter’s eyes. Admire the vastness of trees. Watch the lizard do its dance, head bobbing while hiding in the grass. Don’t let the idea of being a homebody force you into hiding. You are an outdoor girl. She is an outdoor girl.
How do I keep going?
Surrender. To the here and now. I know you believe you should be over there, where the grass is greener. I know you believe you should be leagues ahead. I know you believe you should DO SOMETHING. You are. You don’t have to force anything. Enjoy yourself in this.
How do I keep going?
Write down what you’re thankful for. Most days. Make it a habit. Look around you, everything you’ve ever wished for, you already have.
I leave you with the words that first inspired this essay, that I was too afraid to write when I was in the depths, that I couldn’t even imagine writing — “Perhaps you’ll find yourself somewhere in it – or maybe even take it as inspiration to make your own How To Keep Going personal manifesto, something to write out and keep on your desk when you forget what on earth to do next.”
Thanks for reading!
xo
"Nurture your hobbies, the ones you’ve left behind. The ones you think you no longer have time for, you do. Bake a galette with the ripest strawberries. Don’t save the best for last, eat it now or you risk things spoiling. Bake the banana bread, make that jam, preserve those lemons. Soak in the abundance and love that exists through food. Share it with your lovely neighbor and your friends. Spread that love like wild blueberry preserves on toasted sourdough."
I could go on about everything in this post - and ESPECIALLY that one part which you'd shared with us in the group call that is so, so stunning. This one is the most heart-gladdening for me. I've had a resolution this week to give even just 10 minutes a day to my long abandoned hobbies, and it's so beautiful to see it's on all of our minds together!
Dear Joscelyne, this is such a profound and beautiful meditation on life, love and aliveness. I was so moved while hearing your reading of part of this piece, and now, to be able to read the full essay here feels truly special and has shifted so much more within me. It's such an honour to get to know more of the story behind this, and to be able to witness the beautiful relationship between you and your daughter through your words.
I loved seeing that your daughter is reading about bitter oranges - they have been a symbolic part of my own journey, that I hope to write about some day.
I loved what you said about not saving the best for last, because they end up spoiling before we allow ourselves to eat them (really working to embody this lesson in my life at the moment after years of experiencing the unintended outcomes of saving the best for last and watching others I love do it too).
I loved each and every one of "How do I keep going" which you've shared - I am supporting a very dear loved one through a life-changing personal crisis, and reading what you shared brought tears to my eyes, and opened up some breathing room for me to begin to imagine how I could think about introducing this idea to them in times when it's so hard to see how to keep going. Thank you so much for sharing your words and the magic of such a healing perspective on looking at life and the world!