Bright lights, white walls, lab coats, people staring, wild thoughts, pills and prescription pads are all I see. The thoughts return. . . check, clean, pills, traps, call exterminator, visions of fire, restrict, binge, purge, weigh myself and on and on and on. The cycle consumes me. I can barely breathe. . . the only relief is planning how I will eradicate these damn bugs. It has overtaken me.  

What is sleep? I can’t even remember. I haven’t slept in months and 24 hours a day my life revolves around these obsessions, compulsions, and destructive behaviours. I need to feel safe - to escape the infestation in my mind. I don’t belong here. Fear grips me and my body tenses. Pain sears through me and I cannot move. Pieces of me are everywhere. I lay fragmented, strewn and crumbled in a heap on the floor of the doctor’s office. What choice do I have? I submit to the care of others or I continue go deeper into the fire of OCD. I need help. I cannot escape the darkness that has become my existence.
 
Dear Mom on the Day You Became the Patient,

I can hear your thoughts. I feel your pain as if it were this very moment. I see the fire consuming you. You do not know how strong you are. The bravery in your call for help will begin a new journey of hope, restoration, and peace.  

The struggle is real. There will good and bad days. You will rise and fall. You will not always feel well. The thoughts will return. Fears will rise again and pursue you. The lies will attempt to drown the truth. Your insecurities will bleed into your soul.  

Therapy will be hard work. You will have to choose how you will respond to the thoughts in your mind. The arduous journey of going on medication will frustrate and send you into rages of anger and physical reactions you did not know existed. You will find the right combination and the thoughts will not consume every waking moment. Despite what people say, your decision will be your own and it is what you need. You will need to free yourself from others opinions and expectations. This is going to be a daily process from here on out- sometimes multiple times a day.  

You will begin to see yourself in a different way. You will learn to be kind to yourself with expectations. You will ask what is true, what is real, what is needed. You will learn that your imperfections are what make you unique and beautiful.  

A life changing decision will come at this time as well. Your husband`s job will take your family to England for two years. This is frightening but you will soon see how wonderful this will be for your healing. You are in your cocoon now, stable and safe.  

In August 2013 you begin your adventure along with your husband and children. With 10 suitcases you arrive with a 3 and 5 year old running circles around you. Exhausted and excited you are on your way.  
England will become like a dream. The architecture brings history to life and your heart will rejoice. Fields of sheep will become quiet places of reflection and healing. National Trust properties will be like quiet cathedrals where you hear God`s voice. Harmonies will flow from new friendships and experiences that strengthen your being. You will start to believe new and healthy truths. You are beautiful and strong. It is possible. You will begin to celebrate your gifts. Each role you play has a purpose- mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend.  

The house you will live in is called Bluebell house. Some of the houses have names. I'm not sure why but you will be intrigued by this. As you enter into the back garden of the house you will see a wisteria bush. The first time you look at that tree there will be bouquets of black and orange mingled in with the wisteria. Butterflies are everywhere. Each butterfly has a different pattern of colour and shape. This is a moment of true beauty. You are going to break through your cocoon and like a butterfly emerge beautiful. Through the struggle you will change and find your voice again and will sing with a new freedom and confidence.  Sing dear one sing.

Love,
​
Erin  

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​Motherhood began a little rocky. It was a rough couple months adjusting to the lack of sleep, struggling to breastfeed and other aspects of the steep learning curve that is caring for a tiny, new life. But after a while my daughter and I found our groove and I began to love every moment. I basked in the warmth of her smile, felt my heart surge with love when she said, "Mama," and revelled in watching her discover the world. Then one day, when she was about 15-months-old, we were told our baby girl had a rare disease and my motherhood changed forever.
 
I write this letter from my present day self to myself 3 years ago on the day my daughter was diagnosed with cystinosis.
 
Dear mom on the day motherhood changed,
 
I see you trying to concentrate on the drive home. You're coming back from the children's hospital, where an ophthalmologist has just informed you, your precious baby girl has something called cystinosis. He didn't explain what it was, just told you she needs eye drops for the rest of her life. You're trying not to freak out, but not knowing what cystinosis is, is killing you.
 
You think back to what brought you here. At her one year checkup you learned she hadn't grown in 6 months. You'd brought up her lack of appetite before but the doctor had said she wouldn't starve herself and if you kept offering different foods eventually she'd eat. She hadn't yet, however they didn't seem concerned so neither were you. But after learning she’d stopped growing your doctor used the frightening term "failure to thrive” and ordered some tests.
 
Those tests brought you to the children's hospital. There was a problem with her kidneys and she was losing electrolytes in her urine. They suspected something but never told you what. You were told she’d need more tests, one of which was an eye exam. What did a kidney issue have to do with her eyes? As soon as you get home you plan find out.
 
Sitting in front of the computer with your husband you feel your world disintegrate. Your daughter, your very heart and soul, has an extremely rare metabolic disease. It affects her entire body, causing damage in every cell. The potential future complications are terrifying and the treatment overwhelming. You feel like a failure, you couldn't even protect the one person that really needed you. You didn't know a pain like this existed, like your heart has been pulverized into nothing and the gaping hole in your chest will never stop hemorrhaging. You feel yourself spiralling down, wishing it was only into a nightmare. That you could awaken and pull yourself out of the dark abyss.
 
You can’t see the bigger picture because you are in the middle of it. But I made it through that day to the other side and so I can see what you can't.
 
Let me tell you what I see.
 
I see a little girl who has more spirit, fire and tenacity than you know. She will adapt to her medication schedule quicker than you will and she will keep that radiant smile and infectious laughter through it all. Her strength will become your hope, inspiring you to give her the best life you can. To treat her as any other kid and give her the courage to live her life boldly.
 
I see an extended family and friends who will surround you with love and compassion. They will rally around your family, giving you support and encouragement. They will hold you when you cry and give you their strength when yours falters. Most importantly their optimism will make its way into your heart, until you believe that you can make it through.
 
I also see a mother who is not kind enough to herself. You push yourself to the background and focus only on your daughter. You feel guilty for your grief. What right do you have thinking of yourself when it's your daughter with the disease? This new journey through motherhood was never one you imagined yet you try to ignore your feelings because they're nothing compared to what your little girl must go through. You wonder if your life can ever be what it once was.
 
Though it will never be as carefree as before, your life will settle into routine. The meds will get tweaked and her levels will balance. You'll find a schedule that works best for your family and before long you will find your groove again. The happiness and joy that you tried to force in the beginning will feel more natural and you will even find the courage to expand your family and bring another precious life into this world.
 
And you will begin to heal yourself through acknowledging your pain, writing and connecting with others. The person you were before the day your motherhood changed may be gone, but you are better for it. You see the light in every day, you fight hard for your children's happiness and you see the beauty in other mom’s journeys through motherhood. We don't all take the same path but it's not easy for any of us. Yet we are still here and we are all still fighting in our own unique ways.
 
I will leave you with this, dear struggling mama, the future of your daughter can still be bright. When you embrace this new reality and understand that it will not change your original hopes and dreams, you'll realize it's not the end but just the beginning. As unbelievable as it sounds there will be good that comes from this struggle. You will find your place, your voice and your strength and you will still give your daughter the world she deserves.
 
Much love,
 
Amanda

Amanda Buck blogs at Elsinosis: Living with Cystinosis

My introduction to motherhood was vastly different than what I had hoped and dreamed for. My twin boys arrived two months early, one stillborn and the other one fighting for his life. I write this letter to myself on that day, two years ago, when I lost my firstborn son. This letter is for a broken mother who had just tasted the bitterness of loss and experienced her darkest day.

Dear Mom in the Midst of Grief,

Taped to your hospital door is a little blue teardrop, a constant reminder that you’re not like the other mothers in this maternity ward. The cry of a newborn baby permeates the thin hospital walls and you place a hand against your deflated belly. You did not expect to end up here so soon, the due date circled on your calendar is still two months away. But it’s clear now that your plans no longer matter; they were stripped away from you along with the babes you so recently carried in your womb.

Who knew grief was so physically painful? It chewed you up and spat back a broken shell of who you used to be. Your heart pains worse than the row of stitches marching across your abdomen and your bloodshot eyes refuse to focus. Life has punched away at you, leaving a bruised and bloodied fragment of who you were yesterday.

You do not know how you will make it through this day let alone the next few hours. But you will. One excruciating second at a time, with shallow breaths and a weary heart - you will survive this. Overnight your life has radically changed.

I see you lying in an uncomfortable hospital bed, counting ceiling tiles and replaying the events of the past twenty-four hours over and over again. You wonder what you could have done differently, how this loss could have been prevented. Your entire pregnancy you were blissfully ignorant of words like “stillbirth” or “preemie.” Now there is no room left to think about anything else.

I’ve stood where you stand. I’ve ran the scenarios and I want you to know that the guilt is not worth it.
There is nothing you could have done differently. For the seven short months that you carried your boys, you loved and cherished them, comforting them in your warm womb, praying and singing over them. You tried your best to protect both of them but God gave you a different tale to tell.

You don’t believe me now but one day your heart will feel lighter and you will laugh again. This is not the end but the beginning of a great love story that you will carry until your dying breath. You will not watch your son grow but he will not fade either, he will always be a part of you.

I wish I could tell you that this would be your only loss, your only heartache, but I can’t. There will be pain ahead but it will not break you. This pain will mould you but it will not define you. You will emerge from the other side victorious.

You are strong even though you don’t yet feel it.

I know there are moments when you worry that you’re slowly unraveling one stitch at a time; that you’ll be unable to get it all back together again. You didn’t sign up to spend weeks in the NICU, living in perpetual fear that another little one will never come home. You worry that you’re not cut out for this type of motherhood: the kind that involves picking out a casket and a gravestone.

You feel robbed of your “motherhood firsts” but what you don’t know is that you are slowly redefining your definition of motherhood.

It will never look like you had dreamed it would. Motherhood is more difficult and frightening than you could have ever imagined. But it’s in these dark, tear-stained moments that you are being shaped and stretched. Your heart can hold more than you ever felt possible and this love is worth the momentary pain.

Don’t hold yourself back. Let yourself grow, sweet mama.  
You will eventually figure out how to navigate this new normal. But for today, take time to grieve. Be patient with yourself and with your spouse. Find a network of grieving moms and surround yourself with family and friends who will care for you (and yet give you the space that you need to mourn). Grieve at your own pace and don’t let anyone rush you. This is your story and only you know how to tell it.

Remember that you will not always be in this place; you will one day emerge from the other side of this grief. It will always be a part of you but it won’t always look like this.

Hang in there mama, you’re going to make it.

Much love,
​
Liz


Liz Mannegren, mother of three precious babes (two in heaven, one in her arms) and blogger at mommymannegren.com


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I wrote this letter from my present day self to myself four years earlier on the day that my daughter (then 21) told me she was gay.

Dear Mum who has just heard the words: “Mum, I’m gay”,

I see you are in shock, numbly going about your business like a machine whilst the implications of these words sink in. Your deepest fears have been spoken and you can no longer convince yourself it isn’t true. 

You feel overwhelmed and sick with shame. What will people think of you? How can you ever look someone in the eye again? What does it even mean - is being gay a real thing, or just a choice? What does God think about it? What about bible verses that condemn it?

I know it feels paralyzing but you will get through this.

However for today, it is all consuming. Amid the feelings of shame other emotions start to surface:

You feel sad, partly for your child, but mainly for yourself - the dreams you had of your kids marrying Christian spouses and bringing your grandkids up in the same church, now lay shattered on the floor around you.

You feel guilt - for opinions you have shared from your sheltered, conservative experiences; for not being there earlier whilst your child suffered and for burying your head in the sand. This revelation has cut you to the core and left you with many questions. You feel desperately alone, but the thought of sharing your news with someone is even more terrifying.

I have a message for you, because I lived through it and made it to the other side. You will not only get through this, you will blossom as a result of it. Today your heart has been broken. Up to now you have done a pretty good job of keeping your emotions to yourself, but this wound is too big to conceal. Your ‘look good’ masks can’t hide it.

The walls you built around your heart to protect it will need to be broken down. Your heart will have to be exposed before it can be mended. This will be painful initially but what you didn’t realize when you built the walls to avoid failing, or being rejected or ridiculed, is that they also stifled your dreams and starved you of joy and intimacy.

Once your heart is mended you will be free to be your true self and you will never want to go back. You will have a much greater capacity for courage, hope, compassion, love, acceptance, empathy, gratitude and joy. You can’t see the bigger picture because you are in the middle of it. But you made it through that day, and many more, so that now, four years on it is a completely different picture.

Let me tell you what I see:

I see a mum who loves her child unconditionally and will walk this journey along side her, maintaining a close relationship.

I see a person who will do research and talk to her child about the aspects of her life to which she was blind. Someone who is open minded and willing to change her views.

I see a woman who trusts God and will draw closer to Him; who will know His strength, peace, comfort and love in greater measure.

I see the daughter whom you have raised, full of grace and love as you process this.

Looking ahead:

I see you gradually opening up to people, letting them see your pain and shame and that liberating you from the fears you’ve held up to now of letting people get close.

I see family and friends coming along side you, supporting you and casting no judgement, leading to deeper relationships.

I see a passion rising up in you to advocate for gay kids growing up in the church. To break the silence and try and change the environment so they know love, acceptance and support.
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I see you connecting with other Christian mums of gay kids and supporting each other as you walk similar journeys.

And most importantly I see you free from shame and embarrassment, completely accepting your amazing child as she is, acknowledging that being gay is part of her, just like having red hair. The practices that will help you most during this transition are journaling your raw, unabated thoughts and feelings; walking and talking honestly with God in the forrest, and sharing your struggles with close friends.

I will leave you with this, broken Mum, Within a few years you will be celebrating with absolute joy, the marriage of your daughter to her lovely fiancee. You will have a closer relationship with God as you know His journeying with you and you will be a freer, stronger, more confident, less judgemental person; feeling much more fully alive than you ever thought possible.

I know this is hard to believe right now but hold on, take each day as it comes and trust in the Lord whom you love.

Much love,
​
Julie