motherhood

It’s been years since I dusted off my resume, or interviewed for a new job. I love where I am and I love what I do, and there was just no reason to change it. But then suddenly, there was.

Suddenly, there were too many schedule conflicts with family events and work. There were weeks I didn’t see my kids for three days straight. There were nights I’d kiss a head in the dark and hear, “Are you gonna be here when I wake up Momma? I just like to know.”

Suddenly, this idea of online life as a hobby flew out of the window. Being online is literally a job for me now, one that is life-giving and hopefully very permanent. There were weeks I stayed up too far past my bedtime, trying to beat deadlines and answer emails before my alarm went off for work. There were nights leading up to the conference where I looked at my husband and shook my head from behind my computer screen, as he got up to make me another pot of coffee.

Suddenly, there were aches and pains. There were weeks I worked three in a row and wondered how on earth I’d done it until now. There were nights I’d limp in from work and collapse on the couch, unable to muster enough energy for so much as a conversation. My days off became a blurry blend of recovery and productivity, and I couldn’t seem to nail down a rhythm anymore like I’d done so easily in years past.

But I fought it all off, for what seemed like months. I love where I am. I love what I do. I love my patients. I love my surgeons. I love my team. I love my facility. I love my company. I am good at this. This is what I do. This is where I work. This is who I am. There was just no reason to change it. But there was.

As the school year swung in, I couldn’t ignore that voice any longer – the one that said, It’s not about you and what you love. It was time to explore other options, options that would give me a slower pace, a more structured routine, and more time at home with my family and other responsibilities.

So I dusted off the resume, and I interviewed for a new job. And I got it. I’ll be managing a patient caseload for a hospice agency here in town, doing weekly home visits and coordinating services for families in my county. I know that working with dying people is something that’s made me come alive in the past (a little ironic, I guess), so I’m trusting it will be a good fit for this next season.

Crying as I write this, I’m headed into my last week of work at the hospital. It feels weird to even type it out clearly. I’m leaving my job. I’d be lying if I said I felt great about it. I’m worried about what people will think. I’m worried about not mattering anymore, about starting over in a new environment where I’m new and unsure. I’m worried about losing touch with what has become a second family to me.

But I literally don’t have room for the worry. Not a spare inch. So I’m going to fill that space with lovely things instead, things that are pure. I am excited about being obedient. I feel great about listening to the still, small voice. I look forward to learning something new, and of course… being home for dinner every night. This new chapter feels brave, so I’m going with that.

Several of you have asked for an update to this post, and I figured Hadassah Lee’s turning one just might call for one. I’m grateful for you women who have spoken up and made sharing this piece of my story absolutely worth it.

I wept a lot as her birthday neared. I felt a frustration rise up, a sort of indignation, when people asked me why I was sad about my baby turning one. She’s it, y’all. She’s the last. And she’s the first baby I’ve ever looked at with confidence. Staring at her face got me through a lot of hard days and sleepless nights. I can do this. I’m doing this. I’m having a good time doing this.

I haven’t shared a lot of the daily dirt on my postpartum struggles, mostly because it sounds like a lot of defensive babbling. I still stand by my claim that I never suffered from depression. To this day, I haven’t felt anything remotely like hopelessness or despair. I’ve been there before, and I remember what it felt like. But this was different than that. Different from the baby blues, too. This was like, anxiety on steroids. Rage that made me feel other-worldly. Never in my life have I felt so out of control as I did during those long weeks last winter. There was a lot of calm calm BOOM happening. I’d go from folding laundry to slamming a door and screaming into my pillow. I found it difficult to enjoy my family, difficult to enjoy being home at all. I felt like a stranger, like something was wrong with me. Everyone else in my house seemed to know the secret recipe for contentment. Meanwhile, I was running sweaty, panicky laps around the house trying to find it. I saw a counselor a few times, which helped. I gave in to the joy when it overtook me, which helped too.

But what helped even more? I dug in. I didn’t run from it, or smile it away, or convince myself that it would pass. I didn’t even fully understand what it was, but I knew I had to deal with it head-on. There is no muscling our way out of seasons like these. So I quit fighting and I sat down. I dug in.

I dug into the Word. I read verses that spoke of hope and eternal perspective, and the fog began to clear. I dug into my marriage. I reached out to my husband each time I felt myself slipping into a rage. He asked good questions and volunteered sound advice, and the fog began to clear. I dug into my role as a mother, as shaky as it felt. I frenzy-cleaned less and snuggled more, and I tried to celebrate the chaos. I allowed myself to love them with the little oomph I had left, and the fog began to clear.

Things are still hazy around here. I’m not “back to normal” by a long shot. But I’m not sure there is some old version of normal to which I need to aspire. Because those things I listed above? Apparently, they’re all part of what we call healthy living. So maybe it’s time to sit down and dig in, on the regular.