Tag Archives: Christian depression

What will my girls remember? On motherhood and depression

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holding hands

On motherhood and depression

I have a nasty habit of tying my blog posts up with little white bows at the end. For some reason, I always feel like I need to show the struggle and the triumph in my writing, but really, who am I kidding?

Most of the things we struggle with aren’t fully rendered by one touching anecdote or a favorite Bible verse. No, our struggles continue. We learn. We struggle. We grow. We struggle. We feel better. We do better. We get better.

We struggle.

That’s me with my depression. To many, my illness seems fake. “Why can’t she just pull herself together?” I imagine those close to me thinking. And for the record, I don’t judge the thoughts. I think the same thing myself.

I had a great weekend, and then woke up Monday morning with the foreboding weight of life on my chest.

Today is Wednesday and I am starting to feel better.

But every time this happens, the pain and guilt of depression lingers.

What will my children remember about me when they are grown?

I lie in bed at night and wonder. My bones chill and I find myself rubbing my feet together, attempting to breathe a little warmth into my sobering thoughts.

Will they remember their mother swinging them at the park? Will they remember their mother praying with them before bed, or setting the table while their dad put the finishing touches on dinner, or cheering for them at a school assembly?

Or will they remember a door closed. Don’t bother mom, she’s not feeling well. Keep it down, now girls, mom is having a hard day. Will they remember phone calls unanswered, unkempt play dates, mom’s inability to get it together enough to sign us up for gymnastics and swimming?

What will my girls remember?

The thought is a plague. It sucks life.

I’m not going to tie this post up with a bow.

I’m just going to leave it at that.

What will my girls remember?

And what do I want them to remember?

Which brings me to my mantra for the day:

Do. Pray. Do. Pray. Do. Pray.

What do you want your kids to remember about you? And what’s one small thing you can do about that today?

A spouse’s perspective on depression

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A spouse’s perspective on depression

(Help me welcome guest blogger Leanne today! I love this post. Hope you find it helpful as well!)

“Is it the end of the world that she feels that way and you feel this way?”

Our counselor was finishing the end of our session.

“No, it’s not the end of the world…” But my husband didn’t sound sure.

He swiveled to me.  “Is it the end of the world that he feels that way and you feel this way?”  Same question… Same hesitation.

“No, but sometimes it feels like it.”  I was being honest.

“It feels like it’s the end of the world.  But is it?”  He was pushing.

“Not so far.”  I was hedging my bets.

My husband struggles with cyclical dysthemia, a chronic depression that can be “covert”, masquerading as stress, anger, or fatigue.

So for the previous 18 months, a lot of time and dollars have been devoted to finding counselors: one for him, one for me, and one for us.  The conversation above was with the “us” counselor.

That’s because a couple of years ago, my husband imploded.

Covert and chronic depression caught up with us.

We are both clergy and we were working at the same large church with very demanding schedules. Our fourth child, a beautiful boy with Down Syndrome, was a toddler; our oldest child was still in elementary school. My husband was caregiver for his elderly grandmother and an uncle dying of AIDS. Our best friends had lost a child in a terrible accident, and we were caring for church members who were facing unthinkable tragedies.  Anyone would be depressed.  But if you were already mildly depressed, the cliff loomed large.  One could debate whether he slipped or jumped, but he fell down hard; and he nearly took his whole family with him.

Now a new horizon looms for all of us, one with pinpricks of rainbow light that only come as sun filters through rain clouds.  If I had to sum up in one idea what “saved” us (other than faith, prayers, grace… These are our bastion, our strong-tower).

I have learned this…

Each of us stands at a river’s bank.  The river runs with different speeds based on climate at the top of the mountain, something I can’t even control.  And the river carries objects downstream, some small and some large, like river logs. Those river logs are feelings, and they come and they pass because the river is always moving.  Our human tendency is to recognize a feeling, and jump on the log, and ride it to its end, whether that is a soft riverbank or steep waterfall.  My husband and I had started riding these logs over the falls regularly.  Our feelings felt like “the end of the world.”  But we’ve learned that our feelings pass. New feelings are just around the corner. Enjoy the good feelings; endure the bad feelings; know that feelings are temporary.

We are also done rescuing each other, because “rescuing” only results in both of us going over the edge.

I can let him jump in, and if I will stay on the river’s edge, I am more able to offer him a hand out of the water when he is ready to stop “riding the feeling.”  He does the same for me. Slowly we are learning to hold hands on the river’s edge and whisper to each other, “the feelings pass; wait for the next feeling.”  Each time we make a choice for ourselves, make a choice not to rescue each other, let a feeling pass, each time we have and give permission to feel our feelings and let go of our feelings, we create a stronger embankment.

Biopic (1)

Leanne Burris is a pastor/preacher in the UnitedMethodistChurch.  When she grows up, she’d like to be a writer.  In the mean time, she is blessed to enjoy life with her talented and kind husband, Cliff; their four beautiful children; and her lively congregation in Gulfport, Mississippi.  Leanne knows she’s had a great weekend when there is a finished book beside her bed, sand between her toes, and the smell of seafood lingering in the air.  She ponders and postulates about these goings on at compasstrinity.blogspot.com

*Would you like to guest post at gillianmarchenko.com about special needs, faith, motherhood, disability, or something else you come up with? Email me at gillianmarchenko@gmail.com with your idea.

10 things not to say to a mother fighting depression

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10 things not to say to a mother fighting depression

For the last two months I have been working on my latest book project about depression and motherhood. While writing, I came up with 10 things not to say to a mother fighting depression. Of course, these are just my ideas from experiences I’ve had in my personal battle with depression as a mom. Let me know what you think!

10. Go outside for a walk.

It’s true that for me, sunshine and fresh air help me sometimes when I am depressed, but I get tired of people suggesting these the outdoors like I never thought of it or tried it. Now, I do have a friend who shared with me how exercise and healthy eating made a difference in her husband’s depression. I  appreciated the careful, loving way she attempted to help me from experience.

9. You’re lazy.

This is a tough one for me. My mom and I recently figured out that I struggled with depression as a kid, but I was always just thought to be lazy. I have friends and family members who equate my depression with laziness. I get it. If a person hardly moves and stays in bed, it can seem pretty lazy. But please understand, I’m not choosing NOT to do things. I simply, when I am depressed, am not able to.

8. Oh, my friend had that. She did XYZ to get rid of it.

When I am not in the midst of a major depressive episode, I appreciate hearing stories about others who have found helpful ways to elevate their pain in depression. But if I am really struggling, please don’t blow me off with a pat answer to my struggle. It’s real. It’s painful. I need understanding and validation.

7. Your kids shouldn’t have to go through this (i.e. You’re a bad mom).

This is the hardest part of depression and motherhood. Kids absolutely should not have to go through this. Nor should their mothers for that matter. Trust me, guilt is a big part of the cycle of depression, especially when one has kids. Find ways to encourage the mom, and point out concrete examples of her ability to mother well. Our kids are our biggest motivators to tackle depression.

6. Snap out of it.

A lot of people can’t snap out of depression. It is an illness, one that no one prefers to have. Therapy, medication, exercise, eating right, and other things help, and when they do, Praise God! But it is not a question of a person snapping out of it. To say that is just mean.

5. I’d be depressed but I don’t have time.

Ah, the active busy mom who just can’t understand how another mom has the time to be depressed. Comments like this hurt. Moms who fight depression, again, do not choose the illness. Please know, we really want to be able to do more, and there are times when we are jealous of you and all that you accomplish. Depressed moms don’t make time to be sad. They carve out time to be well.

4. Pray harder.

Ouch. If only our faith was stronger, we would not be depressed. God has blessed us with so much, isn’t it disrespectful not to be joyful? The joy of the Lord is our strength, is it not? If you have a friend who is depressed, absolutely pray for them. Absolutely gently encourage them to pray, and seek God, and read scripture. But please don’t make their illness a spiritual deficit. Trust me, if they are people of faith, they are praying like hell.

3. Just take an antidepressant.

Antidepressants do help a lot of people who struggle with depression. And I am so thankful they make a difference in my battle. But our methods of treatment are not really your business to discuss. If your friend had cancer, would you be inclined to advise her the best route of recovery?

2. If you tried harder, you’d feel better.

People who struggle with depression WANT TO FEEL BETTER.

1. How can you be depressed when you have so many good things in your life?

Whether or not one’s depression is situational or clinical, it is not a decision a person makes. “I think I’ll be depressed today.” Um, no. Please don’t say something condescending like this. But also, please, again gently, tactfully, point out the good things in our lives. Chances are, we need to hear about them.

If you battle depression and are a mom, I’d love your feedback. Do you agree, disagree? What would you add or omit in your list?

World’s Okayest Mom

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World’s Okayest Mom

I saw this coffee cup picture today on Facebook. Boy, do I want one.

It made me laugh out loud. I got so excited, as this notion of being an okay mom has been on my radar recently.

Moms have demands; kids, homes, friends, spouses, work.

I get it, life is demanding. Strap on a toddler or two in the house, and the demands are so tall at times you want to curl up in a ball in the corner of the living room.

But I suspect our greatest demands are from ourselves.

Why do we impose our demands on each other, and why, seriously, why do we put such high demands on ourselves?

Why do moms compare?

Our friend down the street loves spending every waking minute with her children, so we should.

Our other friend only buys organic, so we should.

Our other friend makes sure she gets a work out in every day and can fit in her high school jeans, so we should.

Our other friend is memorizing the book of John from the Bible and whispering it to her children at night as she lays them down to sleep, so we should.

Enough.

Working out, eating well, enjoying our kids, teaching them about our beliefs, and a million other things, are all important.

But comparing ourselves to other moms, and to this ideal in our minds of the perfect mother, won’t actually help us improve.

It will help us fail.

Because our energy gets tied up in comparing.

Seriously? Who has that kind of expendable energy? I sure don’t. We will buckle under the pressure, and our children probably will find us somewhere curled up in a ball in the corner of a room.

I struggle with depression, and there have been times in my parenting journey where I’ve ended up in bed for days at a time. Through my relationship with God, a good therapist, and an antidepressant, I’ve realized that I put a lot of pressure on myself. I have this ideal of what I should be as a mom. And it is an incredibly tall order. I set myself up for failure because there is no possible way I could do everything I think I should, even if my neighbor can do it.

I have to stop comparing myself to others and to my ideal of motherhood and work with who I am today.

That’s not saying I can’t improve in areas of my life, God knows I can, and I can learn from others how to be a better mom.

But my standard is not them. I am not them, and comparison and guilt absolutely suck what little reserves of emotional and physical energy I have to parent my four daughters.

So here’s my challenge: Don’t think you have to do everything every other mother is doing. Figure out what is best/right for your family at this season of your life, pray about it, ask God to bless it, and then do it.

It’s vital for us moms to take a step back and see what we have in life. Your life may not be ideal. In fact, I wonder who has everything they want? I sure don’t.

But if you have your kids, or your marriage, or your faith, your health, your job, and/or a million other things in your life, you have much to be thankful for.

You are okay. 

I need this reminder today.

Maybe you do, too.

We’re okay. My kids are okay. I’m okay. Our family is okay.

Because there are no guarantees, and a lot of people aren’t okay, and we may not be okay tomorrow.

So, who’s with me? Here’s to World’s Okayest Moms!

A glimpse at a mother’s depression

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A glimpse at a mother's depression, and the quilt that ensues because of it

A glimpse at a mother’s depression, and the quilt that ensues because of it

A glimpse at a mother’s depression

(Because I am such a fun gal, I’ve decided to share a little bit of my latest work in progress as far as writing goes. I am working on a project about my struggle with chronic depression while attempting to mother my four children, two with Down syndrome, and two with the usual number of chromosomes, and live in the realm of professional Christianity as a former missionary and now as a pastor’s wife. Depression isn’t usually a word a lot of Christians talk about. Well, I’m talking about it. And I will continue to talk about it because it needs to be talked about, and it helps me to heal. I’m not depressed today (mom, you don’t have to call after reading this), but whenever I read this scene, the words bring weight back to my chest.)

I’d like a drink of water, but I can’t imagine getting out of bed, walking downstairs, turning on the faucet and filling a glass to bring to my lips.

I hear the kids downstairs, they are home from school. My husband is telling them to put away their coats, hats, and gloves. Polly is singing a song from Super Why, and Zoya is complaining that Elaina is mean. Pots and pans shuffle around in the kitchen. I imagine Sergei clicking on the gas to the oven, and pulling out a pan to start dinner. I listen, holding my breath, wondering if the signs of life downstairs will bring a pulse back to my chest? I push the air out of my cheeks, and feel my body sink deeper into the mattress. I roll over, and put the soft white comforter with a black design over my face.

“Mom?”

I’m down under a mud puddle somewhere in a dream. I hear a muffled voice. “Mom? It’s time for dinner. Mom?” I roll onto my back and squint my eyes up at Zoya, my middle child, the easiest baby for me, the one who still crawls up in my lap and rests her head on my breast like she’d nurse if she could.

“Hi.” I clear my voice. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t want to scare my kids. I glob together blips of energy lollygagging in my body. My mind gathers them together like worn out pieces of left over pie crust that won’t stay together, even with a little flour and spit.

“Hi honey. How was school?”

“OK.”

Zoya’s voice is small and distant. I see the fear in her eyes, and work hard to remember if I’ve taken a shower today, or yesterday, or if I will, perhaps take one tomorrow. I can’t imagine what I must look like.

“Um, Papa says it’s time for dinner. Can you come down and eat with us?” My daughter, her face creamy and smooth, like white velvet. I catch her sometimes, when I’m well, lying in her bed alone. “Whatchya doin?” I say nonchalantly. “Nothing, just resting.” “OK, honey, love you.” I walk down our light yellow hallway wondering if she feels sad at all, deep down in her heart? Would she tell me if she did?. I worry she’ll get whatever whacked gene I seemed to have inherited that makes life bad and hard for no real, apparent reason. I hope to God it isn’t so.

“No, I’m not going to come down for dinner tonight. I’m still not feeling great.”

“Ok, do you want us to bring you up a plate?”

“Maybe a little later.”

Zoya bends toward me, wraps her soft arms around the bulk of my body hidden under the covers. Her embrace stops the ache, just for a second. A tear slides down my cheek and I wipe it away before she can see it.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, Zoya.”

She leaves my bedroom, and I wriggle around on the mattress to find a way to ease the pain of my heart and body. She closes the door.

I’m covered in black again.

Ugly prayer turned pretty

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Ugly prayer turned pretty

God, I am attempting to draw near to you, I know that in order to do so a lot of shit needs to be drained out of my life. I seemed to have clogged up at some point.

Call it depression, call it exhaustion, call it caregiver burnout, call it what you want. I’ve lived numb for a while, but now you are awakening me. My limbs tingle, there’s a bit of a rumble in my belly, my heart is beating a tad louder, enough to show me I’m alive – and that my purpose is to give you glory with what you’ve given me.

I pray that you show me what I need to change, and good luck with that, because I’m afraid my heart could probably when a spot on HOARDERS these days.

I see cars drive by out the window. I hear the heat tick on here in the house. I have a lump in my throat when I dare myself to be still and look to you. My hair is greasy,  I’m weary, and unsure.

Sheets on beds desperately need laundering.

And so do I.

Here I am.

And the best thing about all of this is you are here too.

maya angelou

Broken hands

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Broken hands

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I noticed something odd this year as our family decorated for Christmas.

Three of our Christmas decorations; an angel, and the two separate Marys from nativity scenes all have had their hands broken.

Broken hands.

The angel was broken a few years ago. I remember the scene well. My daughter Polly was playing with a couple of nutcracker ornaments on the bookshelf when she bumped it. The angel, standing prominently on top, wobbled off the side of the bookshelf. Her right extended arm holding a star for all to see, clipped Polly on the forehead and broke off. The cut on my then three year old daughter gushed. “Not this, not now,” I exclaimed as I rushed over, swooped her up, and called for my husband Sergei to help.

Around that time three years ago, Polly had been diagnosed with Moyamoya, a scary syndrome that thins arteries in the brain to the point of strokes and seizures, (in addition to having been born with Down syndrome), after witnessing an outwardly seizure exhibited while waiting for pancakes at a Bob Evans Restaurant in Michigan, that, afterwards left her temporarily paralyzed on the left side of her body, and through tests proved to be a catastrophic stroke. We were waiting for her first brain surgery to combat the newly detected disease.

We didn’t know what else to do while we waited, so we decorated for Christmas.

And gathered together as a family each night leading up to Christ’s birth, in advent, waiting, waiting, for our third daughter to have surgery before the next stroke or seizure hit, and waiting, waiting, waiting, for the hope of the Christ-child.

After the bleeding on Polly’s head subsided, and she was happily snacking on goldfish and watching a rerun of Barney on television. I picked up the one armed angel, and, upon realizing that God was there with us, protecting Polly from fallen angels and from seizing within, I quietly placed her back on top of the bookshelf, broken, more real, closer to me in her handicap, and closer to God in the fact that he was there, with us, in our brokenness.

Can a Christian be depressed?

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 Can a Christian be depressed?

Sometimes when depression rears its ugly head, I find myself wondering how a Christian can be depressed if the joy of the Lord is our strength.

But then God nudges me, and shows me that I am asking the wrong question.

I shouldn’t be asking how or why a Christian gets depressed.

Because I am a Christian.

I get depressed.

Why spend time deciding if it is right or not?

Those questions are a waste of the small reserve of energy I have at times like this.

I should just ask God for help, and to sit closer to me in life.

And realize that he already is.

But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore, I will hope in Him.” Lamentations 3:21 – 24

Feeling sad today?

Pray.

Take a shower and get dressed.

Pick one thing to do; doesn’t matter how small or how big.

If you have children, look them in the eye and hold them tight.

Breath out another prayer.

And then come sit on the couch with me.

To do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing, to contemplate the beautiful thing: that is enough for one man’s life~ T.S Eliot

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“Can’t take much more of my child with special needs”…

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“Can’t take much more of my child with special needs”

Was a search term that showed up on my blog the other day.

When I read it, my heart hurt.

But I know that for a lot of parents, this is reality.

If I’m honest, when it comes to parenting my two young daughters with Down syndrome, similar thoughts have surfaced in my mind too.

Anne Lamott once said,

“My mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to go into alone.”

I relate.

But when dealing with our children with special needs, or kids in general, I don’t think that we parents feel like we can really open up about our struggles. Good parents aren’t supposed to struggle. Parents of kids who have special needs are supposed to grow instant thick skin, have endurance, and be ready to fight to the end for our kids. We’re supposed to handle biting, slapping, outbursts, embarrassing situations, stares, rejection, with an easy, winning smile, and grace.

But we get tired. We get weary.

And when we are tired and weary, we need to be able to open up somewhere.

For that to happen, people need to show a whole lot more grace to one another.

Parents, if you haven’t been in the struggling parents’ shoes (or even if you have) don’t judge. Help. Encourage. Pray.

But don’t judge.

Special needs community, be sensitive to people who are struggling.

I’ve struggled. I will struggle. Caring day in and day out for my kids with special needs (and my other two as well) can be taxing.

If you found this post today because you googled “I can’t take much more of my child with special needs,” I want you to know that I hear you.

I validate how you are feeling. And I want to tell you it’s OK to struggle.

I want to also tell you to please get help.

I can’t take away your hurt today, or run over to your house to help watch your kids so you can take a break. I can’t fold your laundry, or throw something in the crock pot for dinner, or help in another tangible way.

But I am a person of faith. I can pray for you.

And I can encourage you to get help.

There’s absolutely no shame in asking for help. Ever.

Did you hear me.

There is absolutely no shame in asking for help. Ever.

I can say this, because it is what I’ve had to learn. This past year has been very difficult. I’ve spent days in bed depressed. My husband was stressed out. My kids were cranky. My children with special needs regressed.

I didn’t ask for help.

In a way, I didn’t know how.

But mostly, I didn’t want other people to know of my struggles.

I’m getting help now, and I want to encourage you today to get help too.

If you can’t take much more of your child with special needs …

Tell someone.

Parents need to be able to say it’s hard without backlash or judgment. You may not blog about it or post about it on Facebook if you aren’t comfortable, but please, please, PLEASE if you are struggling in a role of primary care provider for your child with special needs, tell someone about it. Pick a person who will hear you, validate you, and support you.

Something amazing happens when you vocalize harboring thoughts.

If you can’t take much more of your child with special needs …

Make an appointment to see your doctor

Rule out anything physical going on. Talk to your doctor about your thoughts and feelings. Heed his/her advice.

If you can’t take much more of your child with special needs …

Get a break. Today, if possible.

Know anyone who owe’s you a favor? Find someone to watch your kids for a day, an afternoon, an hour. Go outside. Get in the car and drive. Walk away, and try to do something just for you.

If you can’t take much more of your child with special needs …

See a therapist.

You may benefit from someone who is trained in helping you weed through your emotions and thoughts. If you can’t afford it, call your local church or google free/low-cost therapy options in your area.

If you can’t take much more of your child with special needs …

If you googled “I can’t take much more of my child with special needs,” I’m giving you an internet hug.

I’m sorry you are struggling.

Please, find some help. Email me, and I’ll try to help if I can…. I promise I will pray.

If you are a parent in the special needs community, leave a comment of support to those among us struggling today.

When Mom’s depressed; Addressing depression for the sake of my kids

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When mom’s depressed; Addressing depression for the sake of my kids

When mom’s depressed; a meaningful interaction with my daughter about my depression

“You know what, Mom?” My daughter Zoya touched me on the arm the other day.

“What, honey?”

“I know that you have been happier lately.”

“Oh really, how?” I asked, as I rubbed the spot in between her shoulder blades on her back.

“Because you are doing more at home and with us.”

“And because you sing while you do the dishes again.”

When Mom’s depressed

According to an article published on the Fisher Price Website,

“In America today, there are 19 million people walking around depressed. This statistic includes celebrities like Mike Wallace of “60 Minutes” and Tipper Gore, wife of our previous vice president. Of these 19 million people, roughly one-third don’t even know they’re depressed. And of those who know they’re depressed, nearly two-thirds don’t seek any treatment.”

I’ve battled chronic bouts of depression on and off since high school. But after the birth and adoption of my four children, the ugly monster known as depression has reared its ugly head at my family often.

Honestly? My depression embarrasses me.

I’m a Christian.

I’m a mother.

A writer.

A speaker (coincidentally, mostly to groups of mothers).

I am a leader at my church.

I believe in God’s grace.

I’m a person who should have it all together. That’s what people expect from me.

But I don’t have it together. And I find that God uses me more when I’m vulnerable with my struggles.

Really, though, it’s about my kids

My husband Sergei and I have been actively seeking out ways to help ease my depression.

I want to feel good. I want to find joy in joyful things: like one of my kids’ smiles, a walk in the park, watching something fun on T.V. Hanging out with friends.

But really, though, it’s about my kids.

I fight depression and seek out ways to change for the sake of the children God gave me.

I am the only mother they have. And they do not deserve a mother who stays in bed for days at a time.

“We love you Mom, even when you are sad.”

My daughter Elaina wrote on a piece of scratch paper and gave it to me about a year ago. I hung it on my wall.

I look at it every day.

My children’s love and belief in me keeps me going even when I don’t believe in myself.

Addressing depression for the sake of my kids

So I fight.

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I’ve broken up my life into three major parts.

Spiritual

Behavioral

Physical

Spiritual:

I believe in Jesus but when I am depressed, I don’t want to talk to him, or read his word, or talk about him. But I know that when I struggle, I need him most. So I pick up something like the book of Psalms, and I read a little bit. I don’t set up a big schedule. I don’t set aside prayer time.

But I whisper out a “help me” and I know that God hears me.

If you struggle with depression, invite God into your struggle.

He’s there anyway.

My friend Katie said something very wise. “It is so important for us all to remember that being a Christian and having depression are NOT mutually exclusive… and that having depression does not indicate a lack of faith.”

Amen and amen.

Behavioral:

As a mom who’s depressed, I catch myself up in all kinds of bad habits. For the last three months, I go to Cognitive Behavioral Therapy once a week. Talking is still a primary focus of this type of therapy, but the idea is working through my bad habits to assert better patterns in my life. Every week I leave therapy with a couple of action points to work on.

It has helped me immensely as I battle depression to establish healthy behaviors back into my life.

And I am not at all ashamed to pay someone to be my best friend :) .

Physical:

I understand that something in my brain is lacking, and depression ensues. I’m taking an anti-depressant. I see a psychiatrist every other month. Some day I’d like to be off medication. But that day is not today. I’m OK with that because I sing while I do dishes now.

My kids make me laugh.

I actually like people again.

I also am forcing myself (with the help of my therapist) to get outside and exercise. I take VItamin D, and other essential vitamins.

I turn on music at lunch time and dance around the kitchen with my kids.

If you are a mom who is depressed

Here’s my advice.

Get help.

Split up your life into three parts: Spiritual, behavioral, physical and make small measurable goals.

But fight for your kids.

Fight for yourself.

And leave me a comment if you are comfortable doing so.

I will pray for you.

Because I know the struggle is real.

It’s hard.

But there are things you can do, with God’s help, to feel joy again.

And by all means, don’t ignore how you feel because you are embarrassed.

It’s just not worth it to live your life in bed.

It’s not worth your kids’ childhood and well-being.