My last "normal" birthday was when I turned 30. All the possibilities of a new era were at my finger tips. I was ready and excited to see what was going to come of being "thirty, flirty and thriving." I was somewhat naive to real suffering. This was a year before the storm hit.
It was two years ago this very evening that I figured out I had postpartum depression. The next day, on my 31st birthday, I felt special and celebrated and yet I also felt weighted down by the realization that there was something wrong with me. Understanding I was sick... that I had to get help... that I had to push away the shame and feelings of not being able to "handle" life. I had no idea how tough of a battle I was starting against this illness and against myself.
And so I sit here... two years later. Anniversaries of things that have happened relating to my depression have been tough. I've been told they will get easier. Today's anniversary is a little easier this year then last. And so in that I find hope. Hope that maybe someday these years of struggle will be a fleeting memory... maybe someday I can help women in a similar situation... maybe someday I can truly embrace the reason God chose this path for me.
I already see glimpses in the ashes... I am stronger. I am wiser. I am more courageous. I am more sensitive. I am me.
