With motherhood comes the great gift of repeatedly seeking out my Savior. There is no other human relationship that I could ever care about deeply enough to cause me to continually walk knowingly into the refiner's fire again and again. Never have I failed so repeatedly at something in which I so desperately want to succeed.

Desperation is the only appropriate word for my longing feelings towards succeeding at motherhood. I do not take lightly the charge I have been given by God to nurture these sweet spirits that were sent to me. I see their infinite potential and intrinsic goodness and I know that nothing else I do in life will ever matter as much as helping them become the world shapers they are intended to be. A mother is not all I am; but for now, it is more deserving of my time, effort, and devotion than any other aspect of my journey in this life.

In any other situation, I would have given up by now. I'm generally fairly quick to concede defeat when things are overly challenging for me. Thankfully, in this thing, I have a broader perspective from my knowledge that these little souls truly belong to Him and not to me. I am doing God's work, and if I am to do it well then I must seek the wisdom and assistance of the Master. To repeatedly seek out the healing and transformative effects of my Savior's atonement is the only way that I can pick back up and begin anew after each time I stumble. As I find Him in prayer, I regain my footing to move forward in this journey. I succeed in motherhood only when I turn myself over to Christ and allow him to lead me in my efforts.

A Plea For Voices From The Darkness

There’s a dark place in motherhood that virtually no one is talking about. A place where hope disappears, sleep doesn’t come, praying feels useless and the only thing worse than the pain is the numbness.  Everyone who knows this place experiences it differently, and though it doesn’t affect every mother, it affects more we know. Too many women don’t know how to recognize the battle raging inside them for what it is, and so they suffer in silence, confusion, and fear. I’ve been to this place and back, though my climb back to solid ground isn’t over.

I’ve written on the topic of Postpartum Depression before HERE, but I’ve put off writing more on the subject for far too long. I’m in a different place now and the darkness doesn’t suffocate me as it once did, but I haven’t forgotten the all-consuming hold it had on me back then. I remember the feelings of “Why me?!” so distinctly. It’s impossible in that place to not question why God would allow such an impossible load to be placed on the shoulders of a young mother who wants nothing more than to simply feel the joy of those sweet children she's been entrusted with. To feel so broken, so worthless, and so entirely alone when other mothers around you seem to be overflowing with joy, energy, and purpose can completely rob a woman of the will to keep going. It’s so easy in that place of all-consuming darkness to believe that everyone you love would be better off without you present to weigh them down. It’s important to note that not every experience with Post-Partum Depression or Post-Partum Anxiety gets this severe or lasts long enough to feel this impossibly hard. But for some women, this is a daily reality.

For a very long time, I wondered why I personally had to face this trial. It felt cruel that after the painful challenges of infertility, I was again robbed of the joy of having a baby even with that baby in my arms. I have intently searched for meaning in this trial, because I feel that to suffer so deeply without purpose is a waste. I have strived to create purpose by allowing my PPD journey to be a driving factor in many of the changes I’ve made in recent months that have positively impacted my motherhood. Today, however, I find peace and gratitude in knowing that the purpose was greater.

For the first time in my life, as I knelt to pray last night, I found myself genuinely THANKING God for a lifetime of mental health struggles and most specifically for my own experience with the suffocating darkness of Post-Partum Depression. This came about because earlier in the day, I had found myself—not for the first time in my life—talking a dear friend through a moment of severe post-partum crisis. I won’t pretend that I knew all the right things to say, but at the very least I am so grateful that in those moments I was at least able to say, “I understand.” One such opportunity to offer even a sliver of hope, understanding and judgment-free listening to someone I love is more than enough purpose for the months of suffering I endured. I am so humbled that this sweet friend called me in her time of need.

I’m noticing more and more that each time I open my mouth to discuss my varied struggles with mental health and PPD specifically, I somehow give permission for others to do the same. Verbalizing my struggles doesn’t seem to get any easier with practice as the fear of judgment and misunderstanding remains constant. However, each time my openness encourages another person to share their story, I find more motivation to use my voice for this purpose. I can confidently state that there is healing in speaking out about mental illness. Acknowledging my struggles and giving them a name gives me back some of the control that has felt so absent in the dark times. There is catharsis in simply uttering the truth of these challenges aloud (or through writing).

Had I not been open about my struggles previously, I would have been robbed of so many opportunities to connect more deeply with friends and acquaintances that have since opened up to me. Perhaps my sweet friend would not have known that there was safety waiting on the other end of yesterday’s phone call. I hope and pray that as I continue to open up on this subject, others will find more safety and purpose in doing the same.

If you ever choose to share your story, I’d love to hear about it. Here’s to promoting understanding, and ending shame on the topic of post-partum mental illness!

Affirming Goodness

With 3 small kids under the age of 5, Anthony and I have a healthy awareness of how green we still are at this parenting gig. We are making things up as we go, trying to figure out what works, failing a lot, and apologizing to our kids plenty when we do it wrong. We know that we are still in the beginning; that we haven’t really “figured it out” yet. So, I wouldn’t say we have a lot of established family rules or anything, with one exception. That exception being that we do not call members of our family “bad.” It’s non-negotiable, and everyone is conscious of this expectation.

NO ONE in our family is “BAD.”

Ultimately, we just don’t believe that human beings can accurately be labeled as “bad” and it is important to us that our children understand this. Doing bad things does not inherently make a person bad. If we assume that people are nothing more than a summation of everything they do or have ever done, we lose sight of everything they still have the potential to do yet. Not to mention the incredible human tendency towards change and growth when given the opportunity… but I digress.

So one recent afternoon, I found myself sitting in our stairway face to face with a grimacing, fuming, 4 year old in his time-out seat. I was getting nowhere in my attempts to discuss with him the actions that landed him in said time-out. I could see the rest of our day spinning down a proverbial drain (neither he nor I tend to rebound well from these situations) and my own patience and emotions were reaching a dangerous limit. I took the opportunity to pause, breathe, and pray silently for direction. In an instant, I was reminded that Anthony had recently started a bedtime ritual of positive affirmations with Calvin. I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere without finding a way to soften him, so I looked Calvin in the eyes and said, “Repeat after me.” He glared back and our conversation progressed as follows:

“My mommy loves me.”
A glowering repetition from Calvin.
 “I love me.”
Again he reluctantly repeated, and I went on.
 “I am a good boy!”
And instead of a repetition, there came a heart-rending, “Really?!” followed by streaming tears as the wall between us collapsed.

It was immediately clear to me that my effort to instill within my children a confident knowledge of their goodness has been falling victim to my other actions. Because, no matter how often I tell them that “no one in our family is bad,” the ways that I reprimand or react towards them in difficult moments have a much deeper effect on their concepts of worth.

I struggle frequently with knowing how to balance love with discipline. Especially in the most heated moments, I am much quicker to redirect than I am to seek to understand. A punch is thrown, for example, and I jump immediately (and not always calmly) to the defense of the victim without having any context on the rest of their interaction leading up to that moment. Not that I would ever condone punching, but I am realizing that taking a moment to seek understanding before issuing punishment can lead to a much more desirable outcome. More often than not, a better understanding of what motivated my child’s actions is exactly what I need to be softened enough to redirect in love.

 If I want my children to know that they are filled with goodness, I need to acknowledge their goodness at every opportunity—especially when I am disciplining undesirable behavior. A disciplined child that still feels loved and is also confident in their inherent goodness is much more teachable.

Since that afternoon on the stairs, I have taken more frequent opportunity to pause, breathe, and pray in our hard moments. I have also taken more frequent opportunity to practice affirmations of goodness with Calvin and Daphne in the process of discipline. I won’t say I’m perfect at this, but I think I am improving and so is the overall feeling in our home. I can personally attest to the power of affirming goodness in our children. They need the reminder, and so do we.

By the way, YOU are a GOOD [mother, father, sibling, child, person]. You probably wouldn't be reading this if you weren't.

Place of Safety

I had a heavy but enlightening moment tonight as I sat at my daughter’s bedside drawing nondescript designs on her back with my fingers and singing softly to help her and big brother drift off to sleep. She has never been a very good sleeper and it has become more clear lately that she struggles quite a bit with various fears once the lights go out. Despite her obvious and nearly constant exhaustion, she simply does not ever want to go to sleep and bedtime is becoming more of a battle as time passes.

Tonight as I sat at the side of her bed, a thought came creeping into my quiet mind. It was simply this:

“The things she fears now may not be real to you, but they are to her. If you brush them off today, how will she ever feel safe coming to you with the overwhelming fears that life throws at her later?”

Cue grief and an overwhelming desire to recover so many lost opportunities for offering comfort and assurance.

It’s so easy at the end of the day to want to discredit their fears or needs as childish efforts to simply delay bedtime and stay up longer. I don’t know what her particular fears are—she hasn’t been able to express that entirely yet—but I have grown accustomed to her pleas for my reassuring presence at her bedside as she tells me, “Is so scary in my room, Mommy.”

The rational side of me wants to explain away her fears with logic and discredit them entirely. I have also been guilty of threatening the loss of privileges if anyone gets out of bed again... It can just be so frustrating when I know all too well how quickly my little ones can fall asleep if they will just still their busy bodies, be silent, and close their heavy eyes. On most occasions, however, they simply don't do just that.

In my longing for some alone time at the end of the day, the unfortunate truth is that I am quick to brush off the concerns of little minds too easily and too frequently. But I hope to be more in tune with my babies, even at the end of the longest and hardest of our days and continue to remember tonight's gentle nudging.

More often than not, the added time of sitting with them while they slip away to dreaming is such a small piece of my day to offer up in exchange for letting them know that I will always be that place of safety when they need me.

Parenting in the Dark

PPD.  Postpartum Depression. It’s often treated like a dirty word. It seems that there are a million stigmas attached; stigmas that make it feel impossible and terrifying to discuss this topic. So that’s why I’m doing it I suppose, because someone has to fight the stigmas and somehow make it safe for others to discuss it as well. I’m bringing up the topic because I need you to do it as well. It’s not a dirty little shameful secret. It’s a painful reality full of shame and loneliness, that I believe could be immensely helped simply by a sense of community. Did you know that approximately 950,000 women in the U.S. suffer from PPD every year? What bothers me the most is that this statistic only accounts for self-reported cases. I can't imagine how many more women are waiting out the darkness alone and in silence.

My first attempt at writing this basically came out as a horror story that offered nothing but fear-mongering. It made me personally more afraid of what I was facing and less willing to accept and address it. The second attempt was anything but sincere, and completely un-relatable. It was full of “helpful” ideas on how to fight this battle—ideas that I wasn’t at all implementing in my own life. It was a pathetic attempt to motivate myself out of the darkness and come across stronger than I currently am. It’s funny that now is the time that I would suddenly feel the urge to try again. Now as I sit here in a brand new home, surrounded by piles of unpacked boxes and clutter, with dinner boiling over on the stove, and a million other things I should be focusing on. Now, because I just came inside from a lovely visit with a new neighbor and all I can do is wonder if she would still like me and want to talk to me if she knew anything of the inner turmoil living inside of me and my currently frequent and irrational outbursts. Never has my social anxiety been higher, my sense of worth lower, and my perception of failure stronger. This is PPD. It is recognizably similar to the other depression I have faced, but it is also not. It is depression on steroids.

I wonder what people who haven’t faced depression imagine it to be. I suspect they might envision it as sitting in the corner of a room while listening to sad music and sobbing in the fetal position. And it is that, but also it’s not and it’s more.

Really, I can only tell you what it’s been for me. It is overwhelming sadness and physical pain. In other moments, it is fits of rage and destructive impatience. It is fear of being found out and a desperate need to appear normal and functional. It is feeling completely and totally out of control of your entire mind and body. It’s an impossibly crippling lack of motivation to do anything beyond exist, while knowing that another life (or more) is depending on you completely. It is allowing your toddler to spend hours watching Netflix because you know he'll be content and you will have no reason to blow up at him during that time. It is wanting to stay in bed for days at a time. It is walking down the street and inwardly hoping that the next car could hit you and save everyone you love from the damage you are continually causing to them now. It is wishing that your husband had chosen someone else that actually deserved him. It is fighting off urges to smother a crying baby. It is locking yourself in a room to protect others from your overflowing emotions. It is seeing your toddler’s spirit break as you once again tell him that you just don’t have the energy to play his game. It is doing and saying all the things you swore you would NEVER do and say as a mother. It is apologizing a million times but still making the same mistake over and over. It is trying to remember why you ever wanted to be a mother in the first place. It is never-ending guilt and shame that you disguise with ferocious defensiveness and rationalization. It is knowing that you’re being irrational and feeling completely helpless to return to reason. It is crying only in the shower because you know that your tears won't disturb anyone there. It is verbal attacks followed immediately with embarrassment and regret. It is loving your child(ren) deeply with everything you have, but not being able to actually feel in love with them. It is the pain of knowing that neither of your children is secure and confident in your love for them. It is all-consuming darkness. It is questioning your faith and being so filled with shame that you can’t even bring yourself to pray. It is having one good day and feeling like you’ve finally escaped, then being crushed by the realization that the darkness has returned stronger the next morning. It is seriously considering checking yourself into a mental health unit, almost entirely because you want 3 full nights of uninterrupted sleep. It is physical. It is emotional. It is mental. It is a legitimate medical illness which you struggle so badly to accept that you never ask for help. It is all of these things and so many more that just can’t be said out loud or even to a screen. It is never the same one minute to the next and it seems that it will never end.

But this is only my experience.

I tell you these things not to scare anyone who hasn’t faced it away from pursuing motherhood, but simply to say to those who have faced it, or currently are, that you’re not alone. And you’re not defective, worthless, pathetic, unworthy, unlovable, hopeless or any of the other things that the darkness in your mind has been compellingly you to believe. More importantly, I tell you this to say that there is HOPE. I know this, not because I have previous experience with PPD specifically, but because I’ve faced depression in many other forms and I know that it can be lifted. There are shafts of light in the darkness, and there is daylight at the end of a long dark tunnel. In my experience, the trick to getting through darkness is to fight through the crippling fear and just keep moving—reaching out for any help you can get along the way. 

I wouldn't trade my perfect, beautiful children for anything. They are my reason for living and continually wanting to be better. I wish I had been more prepared for the onslaught of PPD after baby number two, but I foolishly thought I was exempt because of the blissful postpartum period I experienced with my first child. I knew better, but I still ignored all the signs and pretended for far too long that I didn't need help. It's hard now to imagine ever having another child and putting my family through this living hell again, but only time will tell. My hope is that you will never experience any of this. I wouldn't wish the experience on my worst enemy. However, my greatest piece of advice for anyone who does find themselves in the despair of postpartum depression would be to ask for help at the first indication that something is off. No one should have to suffer alone, especially not in silence and shame.

Precious Moments

Some nights my sweet little guy just demands to be cuddled to sleep. It is rare... and I am ever so grateful for these nights.

Tonight was an occasion rarer and sweeter than most. After going through our regular bedtime routine, he cried out for comfort after only a few minutes of playing quietly in his crib. It was one of those undeniable cries that say "I need you Mom!" and I was in his room lifting him from the crib within seconds. A minute later, he slowly twirled his fingers through my hair as he clung to my shoulder and softly hummed along to the song I was quietly singing in his little ear. As he slowly lulled into a peaceful slumber and grew limper and heavier in my arms, I felt the temptation to rouse him gently in hopes of extending the precious experience.

It was one of those moments that you're afraid to let go of. The kind you just want to live inside forever.

It seems that each time I blink these days, he grows a little more. As we near his first birthday, I find myself grasping at each moment and wondering if I will ever get it back. He barely holds still anymore amidst the new-found excitements of rolling balls, stacking blocks, and the endless possibilities for wreaking havoc throughout our apartment. I get caught up in the excitement of it all and find myself anxiously awaiting his next accomplishment or discovery.

He is curious, intelligent, incredibly social, and just a little bit mischievous - all the things a growing little boy should be. Still, I can't help but long for the days of him cuddling on my chest as the hours ticked by... and I can't help but look forward with dread to the days in his future when he may not really need me at all.

These days, I live for the precious moments. They are like fuel for my soul. The dirty diapers, food splattered table, Cheerios encrusted carpet, occasional temper tantrums and general chaos of motherhood all just melt away as I treasure the sloppy kisses, family tickle sessions, and rare bedtime snuggles.

In these precious moments, I can't help but wonder who is really taking care of whom. Perhaps my little guy truly needed me tonight for reassurance and comfort... or more likely, this incredibly intuitive child could sense that I was the one who needed him. Needed to be needed, if only for a moment.

Life can sometimes feel like a mundane daily grind of general repetition. It is in the precious moments that I am reminded that life is really about LIVING, not just existing.

Familiar Emptiness

**This particular post did not turn out quite as I had intended. It may not be incredibly eloquent, but it is honest. It is not something I talk about openly or frequently. It is only the bare bones of a story that is very personal and very painful.**

 Did you know that this week is National Infertility Awareness Week?

I have previously shared some personal thoughts on infertility here on our family blog. Some of you may already know that Mr. Jenkins and I struggled with infertility for some time before we were blessed with our little miracle. If you didn't know, now you do. I'd like to share a brief synopsis of my journey with you in an effort to perhaps lend my voice to those who are struggling in silence. 

By the age of 5, I knew with certainty that I wanted to be a mother. Even as a child, caring for children seemed to be at the center of my identity. As I got older, I began to ponder and plan for my future family. I wanted 8 kids, no more than 2 years apart. It was easy to imagine such ideals in my youth.

At the age of 17, I was diagnosed with severe hypothyroidism. I was given a prescription for synthetic thyroid hormone and told plainly that I would take it for the rest of my life. The doctors and nurses did not seem to think this was anything of much consequence. I was also told that my chances of conceiving children would be approximately 50% lower than the average person. That's when the fear and anxiety of infertility really began. Around the same time, I was put on birth control to produce a menstrual cycle that my body was not initiating on its own. Again, the doctors did not seem to think this was anything of much consequence. 

I started doing research on my own and discovered that many of my health concerns lined up directly with the symptoms of PCOS. I tried to discuss this with my doctor, who quickly made me feel as if my concerns were irrational. "Once we get your thyroid regulated, I am sure your periods will pick up on their own. This is very common. Nothing to worry about." Doctor after doctor (Family Practice, OBGYN, Endocrinology) continued to tell me the same thing for the next 6 years. At no point, did any doctor seem to be overly concerned that my body simply did not menstruate without artificial hormone supplements. They all claimed that my blood tests were always in normal ranges, even told me that I was "too pretty to have PCOS." I just didn't fit the mold. These doctors (who likely knew next to nothing about PCOS themselves) made me feel ashamed of my concerns--so much so that I didn't even dare seek out a specialist. Heaven forbid that I should want to know whether I was infertile before I was actually trying to get pregnant...

And so I lived in fear and anxiety. I dreaded that any boy should fall in love with me, want to marry me, want to have children with me. I knew if he loved me, I would have to tell him about the possibility that I could never give him those children that I wanted so badly myself.

Then I met my Mr. Wonderful. He fell in love with me despite my health problems, my insecurities, my many faults, and weaknesses. I warned him that I may not be able to give him children. "We'll adopt if we have to," he would tell me in his eternal optimism. But still, I silently fretted about what infertility might do to our marriage, knowing it could certainly destroy me, if not the both of us. I became Mrs. Jenkins and within months of marriage I was anxious to start trying for a little one, but we waited. He was ever positive that there would be no problems and I was ever insistent that we wouldn't know until we started trying. Anxiety. Fear. Anxiety.

When we did start trying, it was a struggle just to get me menstruating regularly. After 6 months, a very sweet 89-year-old OBGYN offered me some Clomid to help. He insisted that my blood work still looked great and that it wouldn't take long with the Clomid. (Clomid is miserable, for the record.)  For months and months, I took the Clomid. Slowly increasing the amount each cycle. NOTHING. Progesterone cream was next. It kept me menstruating, albeit not regularly. (It smelled terrible, and I hated it.) Oh and I forgot to mention, all this time I was tracking my Basal Body Temperature daily... watching the numbers on the chart and praying for the blessed peak that meant my body was doing something right. So much Anxiety! One thing the charting told us, was that I wasn't ovulating. "Oh, you're an-ovulatory," they told me. Again with the almost total lack of concern. Again with the insistence that I couldn't possibly have PCOS. 

After 18 months of basal body temperature tracking, pill popping, crazy periods, nasty cream, ovulation detection kits... Nothing. (Unless marital strife and the depths of anxiety and depression are results worth mentioning.) Finally, I was referred to see a Reproductive Endocrinologist. An appointment was made with the help of my insurance company (which was quick to explain that any treatment by this specialist would not be covered.) 

And so Anthony and I arrived at the Utah Fertility Center on a lovely July day in 2011 to meet with Dr. Faulk for a consult. We were seated across from him in his office for 30 seconds when he pronounced a diagnosis of PCOS by simply glancing at a lab result that had been taken over a year earlier by another doctor. He stated that it was one of the clearest cases of PCOS he had ever seen on a blood result. He then proceeded to describe to me each and every symptom I had suffered from up to that point. I cried. 6 years of being made to feel foolish had finally come to end. He did a quick pelvic ultrasound (which would be the first of MANY in coming months) to confirm the diagnosis. My ovaries looked like swiss cheese, there were so many cysts. He was honestly upset that the other doctors had ignored such obvious signs and promptly asked me for the name and number of the incompetent OBGYNs who had ignored my concerns. He then proceeded to lay out a potential treatment plan and sent me home with prescriptions for clomid and metformin to start the process of fertility treatments.  For the first time in 6 years, there was light at the end of a very dark tunnel. I felt HOPE, something I had forgotten existed.

My PCOS is quite severe. On top of the PCOS I also had extensive Fallopian tube scarring from a gangrene infection following my burst appendix (a story for another day) and difficulties with my uterine lining. It took A LOT of medication (pills, shots, suppositories) and a number of minor procedures (2 very painful HSG tests, endless ultrasounds) to achieve a pregnancy. The process of fertility treatments is both physically and emotionally draining. It took every last ounce of my energy and faith to complete each cycle. The first successful pregnancy ended in a heartbreaking and physically excruciating miscarriage. 

After that I wanted to be done for a time, I just didn't think I could take another miscarriage or even another month of the invasive process. Thankfully, Mr. Jenkins convinced me to try just one more time and from that treatment cycle, we got our precious Calvin. Truly a long-awaited miracle.

In many ways, I am now grateful for our trials with infertility. Memories of the long, difficult process of diagnosis and treatment help me remember to never take my child for granted, to shower him with more love than he can handle, and to never waste a single day or minute that I have with him. 

I wish I could say that was THE END of our infertility story. For some women with PCOS, a successful pregnancy can "reset" their reproductive system in a sense and they are able to have further children without the assistance of fertility treatments. Unfortunately, I don't currently fit that mold.

And so, as Calvin's first birthday approaches all too quickly, I am reminded of my dreams of a large family with children close in age. A familiar emptiness begins to seep in these days as I wonder whether Calvin will have other siblings and when. This time around, the questions have changed from "When do you think you'll have a baby?" to "How close together do you want your children?" and "When will you have another?" These questions carry the same sting and heartache, as my familiar response of "Only God knows" escapes my lips. 

This time around, the anxiety and pain are accompanied by a certain level of guilt. I feel guilt and pain as I stare into Calvin's sweet, smiling face and already long to be pregnant again. Not because he isn't everything I ever wanted but because just the thought of him growing up alone might shatter me into a million pieces. Really, the wide array of feelings that go along with infertility struggles are impossible to describe.

I don't share these memories and feelings with you lightly, and certainly not because I want your pity. I'm sharing this today because I believe that infertility is too often a silent battle surrounded by unnecessary shame. I share these things because infertility encompasses its own brand of incredible loneliness and perhaps one of you needs to know that you are not as alone as you feel. 

I know many couples who have suffered longer and harder than we did. I do not claim to be the expert on infertility nor do I think my story is incredibly unique. Hopefully, others who have struggled will lend their voices to this cause in their own way and in their own time.

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, I encourage you to learn more about infertility. Do some research for yourself or for someone you love. If you are suffering through infertility in any of its stages, please reach out for the help you may need. Perhaps from a doctor, a therapist, a spouse, a family member, or a friend--but don't suffer alone. If someone you know or love is suffering from infertility, educate yourself and be available to them, but only on their own terms. Whatever you do, don't offer unsolicited advice or condolences and don't kid yourself into thinking you know that they are going through. Even if you have suffered through infertility, it is different for every couple who faces it.

One last warning to the wise... If you find yourself wanting to ask someone about their plans for starting or growing a family, just don't. It is their business, not yours. If they want you to know something, they will share it with you. This is true whether they are facing infertility or not. Tread lightly.