Reflect. Reframe. Revive.

There are so many things people tell you when they find out you're having a baby. The cliche, well-intended advice comes by the truckload. Not surprisingly, most of it from people who have kids themselves.

The biggest problem with the vast majority of it is, it's a load of crap. People spout the same things over and over even though they have lived it and know that it's a load of crap.

My question is why?

I have a theory, if you'll indulge me.

We live in a society where if you dare complain about your lot, especially if others consider you fortunate, then you are shot down.

Because there is no denying that getting to bring home a healthy bundle of joy into a loving home is an absolute blessing and is sadly unattainable for some who desperately want it.

But that doesn't change the fact that it's far from rainbows and butterflies. And constantly telling people to love every minute is dangerous.

There are side effects that come from not loving something everyone tells you that you should. At best it's a light case of guilt, at worst, it's full blown depression. And it is not okay.

We need to stop shaming people for struggling with something that is a struggle. I’ve been thinking about how I felt when I brought my baby home. All the things people told me and how I was feeling the opposite of almost all of it. And that was when I first experienced true mum guilt.

I was overwhelmed, in pain, exhausted. All pretty standard post birth. But I was also grieving the loss of someone I loved dearly.

My grandfather was found to be terminally ill 3 weeks before my daughter was born. He was riddled with cancer, had an aortic aneurysm on the verge of bursting and a fractured spine. He'd been suffering in silence for months. He was placed in palliative care, and for 3 long weeks I watched him hold on, in unspeakable pain, and I knew, in my very core, it was because he wanted to make sure that me and my baby were safe and well before he could let go.

I had a traumatic induction and a lengthy labour which ended in an emergency c-section. Covid restrictions were at their worst in Australia at the time and my husband was sent home 3 hours after I had major surgery to deliver our baby. I was alone, with a newborn and the feeling hadn't even returned to my legs yet. I couldn't get out of bed to tend to her.

Meanwhile, my dying grandfather was placed in the room next door to me. I spent my first night alone, painfully aware of his presence, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I had just had a baby.

24 hours later, after I managed to drag myself and my newborn next door, he passed away. Confirming my theory that yes, he was holding on for us.

I had been anxious my entire pregnancy and to be honest, not feeling overly maternal. I had multiple complications during the pregnancy and had previously suffered a miscarriage. “Just wait, once the baby is born you’ll be so in love none of it will matter”. Only I wasn’t in love. I felt love, and a fierce protectiveness. But I wasn’t in love, not yet. That took time. Around 4 months I’d say. And dammit if I didn’t feel guilty as hell.

I also desperately missed my old life. I spent my pregnancy in constant fear of the worst. So I didn’t do all those things I should’ve, like make the most of the last time it was ever truly going to be just about me. I felt robbed. Cheated even. What had I done?

I was legitimately convinced that I was going to have a newborn for the rest of my life. I was in this vortex of emotion and I felt like I was being churned around daily.

The fact is, on reflection. These were perfectly reasonable responses to the situation. Nothing to feel ashamed or guilty about. Just another wave to ride.

I understand that my situation isn't what you would call standard. A global pandemic and the death of a loved one is stressful enough. Add a newborn into the mix and of course it's going to be a difficult experience.

But the thing is, even without the pandemic and the grief, it still would have been a huge challenge. And I wish someone had just.f*cking.told.me.

For everyone who said “just wait, it gets better” or “you’ll look back and you’ll miss it”. These well meaning comments only add to the guilt.

The best thing you can say? “I’ve been there, it’s so tough, is there anything I can do to help?”

Let’s normalise the crappy parts. Please.

Let’s not let our friends, sisters, cousins go in blind. Let’s tell the truth about all of it.

Because it’s an amazing, incredible, wonderful.... chaotic f*cking mess at the start. And that’s ok.

You can still look back on trying times with fondness. You can reframe. And you can revive yourself with forgiveness and acknowledgment of your experiences. Only then can we truly heal.