Never again.

It was almost exactly a year ago when I wrote this post about how it’s not enough. I remember how I felt in that moment. I could hardly pull myself together. The thought of leaving him, my two month old son, actually hurt. I felt the pieces of my broken heart, the sharp, shattered pieces floating through my whole body. But I was committed. I had a job I loved. And it wasn’t lost on me that that very job is what allowed for my life to look exactly as it did. My home. My family. Those things wouldn’t have been impossible without that job, but they were certainly more attainable because of that job. And because of that, I was loyal. Even though it hurt.

I returned to the job I loved only to find it wasn’t the same. I don’t know what exactly changed — me or the job or some combination of both, but it didn’t feel like it once did. But my family was there, the people I’d grown to love and rely on. I could do anything for them, and I would. So I did.

I got up every day, tiny pieces of my heart, broken and sharp, stabbing every which way. It’ll get better, I’d tell myself. It’ll get easier. But it didn’t. I was different. The job was different. And nothing felt right.

And yet, I stayed. Countless breakdowns. I must have cried myself through seven tubes of mascara this year. I can do it all I told myself. And I would. So I did. I didn’t know anything was wrong until the people that loved me whispered softly, gently. Something seems off.

It was me. I was off. Broken. Shattered. Everything felt heavy, even the happy things. I didn’t have intrusive thoughts. And I didn’t want to harm my baby, so it didn’t register. I’d slipped through the cracks. The questionnaires at the pediatrician missed it. But those who love me? They didn’t. They caught me. They held me up. They stood in my corner while I got help.

My battle with postpartum anxiety made 2022 really hard. My job made it even harder. Those two things together just about took me out entirely. Not physically, I never wanted to hurt myself. But mentally. I was checking out. It was all too much, and I found myself struggling to muster the energy to enjoy the enjoyable things because I was spending all my energy on just trying to survive.

And then something snapped. And everything started to fall into place. But it had to break first. Remember that. It has to break first. 

One strange thing after another, I found myself with a dream job offer working with and for a dream company. It came out of nowhere, completely out of the blue. Designed perfectly for me. A soft place to land. I see you, God.

So I left. After working a month’s notice, I locked the door to an office I once loved and walked out. It wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same. It was time.

But something still didn’t feel right. I was tired of crashing into brick walls. We had a routine, one that worked. I didn’t want to disrupt my son’s day-to-day when I left my job for the remote position. But then I had to observe his classroom a couple of times for biting. And it was during those observations that a sobering realization came to me. He shouldn’t be here.

It’s been almost exactly a year since I wrote the post about how it’s not enough. I wish I could wrap that broken, exhausted, terrified new mom into my arms now. I’d squeeze her tight and whisper this will be the hardest year of your life. But it will get better.

One year later, I am a full-time WFH SAHM. It will be hard. It will be worth it.

Breathe.