postpartum

When You Feel that Rage

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Please note: The following discusses postpartum depression in great detail and may be distressing to some. I want to note that at no point was anyone hurt—action was always taken prior to that point for the safety of both parties.

When I planned for the birth of both of my daughters, I made not one, but two, playlists for labor and delivery. The first playlist is likely what you would expect: soft, calming Christian music and some chant to calm me and help in breathing through contractions. The second playlist for both girls: hard rock music.

I make the second playlist because I have always used hard rock to power through hard things: late night papers and studying, workouts, cleaning my room, breakups. The second playlist is my “backup” playlist to pull out if the calming Christian music just isn’t cutting it.

Prior to Mariana’s birth, my husband sent me a song by Halocene titled, “Rage.” I listened, and put it on the backup labor and delivery playlist. At the time, I had no idea the role this song would end up playing after Mariana’s birth.

I felt isolated after Mariana was born. No one had offered to set up a meal train for us—I did it myself and pretended others had asked. Five people brought us meals after her birth (two of those were my parents and one set of my grandparents)—we were on our own beyond that. Additionally, doctors were excessively concerned about Mariana’s weight, so much so that I ended up taking Mariana to the doctor every day for four days in a row after her discharge from the hospital. At the final appointment, I was instructed to begin triple feeding: nurse, bottle feed, pump, every two hours. They had wanted me to come in yet again the next day, but Nick said that was enough and that we would seek a second opinion.

The regimen left me exhausted and with no time for naps or to myself whatsoever. I went the first six days home from the hospital without any naps. I was constantly anxious about Mariana’s weight gain. The extreme concern expressed by the doctors had led me to feel that Mariana might just waste away if I failed to continue this strict regimen. I have no doubt that this contributed to the development of my PPD and PPA. When we saw her new pediatrician, we were told that all of it had been unnecessary. I then spent the next month and a half working with an IBCLC to ensure that my supply didn’t drop off after weaning from triple feeding and helping Mariana learn to nurse.

When Madeleine was born, people stopped by and stayed with me for a bit. People helped unload our dishes. Meals came for the first four weeks after her birth. Beyond just one or two people took the time to really check in with me. Covid robbed all of that from us this time.

At first, I thought that my generalized anxiety was just getting worse. But, one night, after multiple night wakings and a day with no naps, it became very clear that it was more than that. This ran deeper.

Anger is an emotion that often points us to deeper issues. It is often an alarm telling us, “something’s wrong. This isn’t right. I need x, and I’m not getting it.” But if we don’t know that, when we feel deep anger, the type of anger that makes your blood boil, your cheeks flush, and drives your fist through a wall…it can scare us.

And that night, everything snapped. All illusions that I was ok went away. Exhausted, alone, and disconnected, the rage overpowered me. The intrusive thoughts began—those thoughts, the ones we are afraid to speak, afraid to ever admit (if you know, you know). I watched, as if outside of my own body, as I screamed at my sweet little baby and then realized I had terrified her. I tried breathing. I tried to calm myself. But the baby was still crying and my whole body was hot and shaking and I knew I couldn’t calm her in that state. And I felt like a failure for it.

So I took her downstairs, put her in the crib in the room down there, gave her her pacifier (I had already fed and changed her), shut the door, turned on the sound machine, went upstairs, cried, and took a twenty minute nap.

The next morning, I told my husband that I needed to get help.

I spent that day researching therapy options. I knew that the anger was an alarm signal that I was not ok, and prior to losing myself to that rage it had been easy to keep myself in denial. It was easy to pass things off as just a phase or as something I could power through. The fit of rage and screaming was my wake up call.

I began seeing a therapist through Talkspace. We went through some breathing exercises and made a plan for what would happen if I felt the rage and intrusive thoughts again. We worked through my guilt of leaving Mariana in her crib to cry when she was still a newborn so I could get even twenty minutes of sleep. We talked about my needs and what wasn’t being met, and brainstormed solutions to better meet those needs.

I remember feeling so alone and ashamed. I felt like a terrible mother. I felt like a failure. How could a mother scream at her baby? How could a mother have these thoughts about her baby? I wanted to just sink into a hole and go away for a long time.

The first time I no longer felt so alone was during another night waking. I was exhausted, and I pulled out my phone to keep myself awake. I found myself on instagram, and I searched, “postpartum rage.” And I read those posts, watched those stories, and I cried. It wasn’t just me. It wasn’t something I was doing wrong. I screenshot the stories that resonated the most, the ones that put into words what I did not know how to say, and sent them to my husband. “This is what I’ve been feeling,” I said to him, “I feel this rage, I fight these thoughts, I spend my whole existence fighting to keep these thoughts and this anxiety at bay, trying to convince myself that being here is better than being elsewhere, and I’m tired. I’m so tired.” It was the first time I’d been able to express myself to him in a way that he understood, because prior to that point, I hadn’t even understood it myself.

The first fit of rage wasn’t the last. But there was a plan: breathe, put the baby down in a safe place, put in ear plugs, set a timer, meet the need that isn’t being met, return to baby. It didn’t make the fits of rage any easier at first. But it made them something that I was gradually able to manage with more grace. I became better at identifying my needs. I started noticing triggers for the rage. The biggest one: lack of sleep. I made a plan to sleep train as soon as Mariana was five months (the age I’m comfortable with for sleep training. If you don’t support sleep training, fine, do what works for your family—I’ll do what will give me my sanity back). I started taking naps whenever possible and asking for the opportunity to nap. I let things go around the house so that I could focus on meeting my own needs. These were basic needs: shower, a nap, food, five minutes to myself. I’d been so depressed and anxious that I would forget to eat sometimes.

Through it all, I kept listening to the song “Rage,” as I focused on the refrain, “This ain’t the end, we’re here to stay / We rush into the unknown /Fearless and brave / So don’t throw it away, that rage / Won’t stop until sweet victory.” I tried to redirect my rage towards healing. I used it as motivation to be better for myself, my husband, and my two sweet girls. I worked through the guilt and the shame. I took a hard look at my wounds and brought them all to the Blessed Mother. I asked her to undo the knots of my heart.

As I worked through healing my mind, I worked through healing my body as well. And, after switching my meds again, I found myself able to walk and work out again. So, at the beginning of April, I began going to CrossFit. Suddenly, there was an outlet for all that energy and anger. I knew that at CrossFit I could show up, listen to loud music, and drop heavy things. At the end of some workouts, I found myself laying on the floor exhausted, but feeling better physically and mentally than when I had walked in the door. I found that I was getting stronger, and as my body became stronger, my mind did as well. I developed healthy outlets for my anger. I prioritized taking care of myself—which is more often self-discipline than bubble baths and manicures.

As my anxiety has eased up, I find that often anger has taken its place. Rather than becoming anxious about things, I become angry. While different in some ways than the blood boiling rage that happened in the height of my PPD, it is still new to me. I continue using many of the exercises I used at the height of my PPD to deal with this new type of anger. Prioritizing caring for oneself is not always easy, but it is always worth it.

As a Catholic and a woman, this type of rage carried a particular shame: the feeling that I was not only failing as a wife and a mother, but as a woman and as a Catholic. I felt that my rage embodied everything a woman, wife, and mother should not be. I felt that I was failing not only my spouse and my children, but God. I felt so deeply alone and ashamed.

So, if you have dealt with this, if you are experiencing this, I need you to hear me: You are not a failure. You are not alone. You are so incredibly strong. Through the grace of Christ with the Blessed Mother, you can get through this. You will get through this. It is ok to feel this rage. It is ok to need a safe outlet for the rage. It isn’t your fault—it’s lack of sleep, hormones, and the PPD or PPA that is causing this. It’s having unmet needs. So, first, get the help you need. Get medication if you need it. It’s ok if you need it. It’s also ok if you feel confident that you can address this without medication, so long as you are getting help and your psychologist/therapist agrees and supports you in that.

I am going to tell you what I would have wanted to hear: so many women deal with this. This is your Calvary right now, but we are an Easter people. We may not know when the resurrection will come, but it will come. You are so beautiful and you are the best mama for your kids. You are not a failure. By the grace of Christ, you are always enough, and Christ can heal all your wounds. Though it may not feel like it now, you are a great wife, and when you get through this, your marriage can be stronger if both you and your husband seek healing and the sacraments. Your life is worth living and worth living well, so don’t give up. Push through, and be amazed at the beautiful, strong, perservering woman that emerges in the end.

Go to the Blessed Mother, and tell her all your fears. Hold the rosary when you can’t pray it. Cry when you need to cry. Scream (away from others) when you need to scream. Be vulnerable—with Christ, with your spouse, with trusted friends. Though your world may be in darkness, I promise you—the resurrection will come. Dare to ask Christ to help you make it to the third day, and He will answer your prayers.

Precipice

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Please note that the following discusses PPD and PPA and was written in part at the height of my PPD.

I will never forget the words that pierced my heart in December 2020. I was barely two months postpartum, in chronic pain, struggling to even care for myself, when from the mouth of my husband came the words, who did not know I was struggling and in crisis, “You need to step it up.”

Words meant as encouragement and a call to action became a drumbeat in my mind, “must step it up, must do more, must try harder. Must step it up, must do more, must try harder. Must step it up, must do more, must try harder.” On and on went the anxious song in my heart.

I became obsessive about cleaning, unable to relax or take a break, unwilling to care for myself. I slipped further and further into depression, losing touch with myself, unable to recognize the person I was in the mirror. While not suicidal, I felt that my husband and my girls would be better with anyone but me.

The full story of my postpartum anxiety and depression is one that is still being written, but as I worked through it and sought help, I came to the heart of my PPD and PPA: all the things that had grounded me, all the strings that I identified as myself—were gone.

I was no longer teaching. I didn’t (and still don’t) fit into any of my clothes. I found myself thrown into stay-at-home parenting during a pandemic. I found myself questioning why, with all my flaws and failures, my husband would wish to remain with me.

I had the distinct sensation of floating midair with nothing to ground me, nothing that I might hold. The winds were strong and picking up, ready to carry me with them, floating me away to a land I did not know. And upon coming to that land, I stared into a mirror. Seeing nothing, I was forced to ask myself, “Who am I? How can I even begin to know myself again?”

And so began the journey.

It is a harsh and cold journey, one for which I was not prepared and one which I did not expect. I have entered into an unknown wilderness, the skies shaded deep blue as purple streaks dance through the sky, the path of possibilities open before me.

The way forward is a journey into my own heart and the heart of Christ, a rediscovering of myself, a radical transformation. In choosing the journey, I choose to die to my old self and allow myself to be made new in Christ. I must expose all my wounds to the abyss of Christ’s Mercy, allow myself to drown, like in baptism, in order to be healed.

I feel I am standing at the edge of a precipice, the wind wailing and moaning around me, staring down into the dark abyss below as waves crash against razor rocks. Behind me, there is a well-beaten path, the only one I have known. There is no alternative path, and so I am left with two options: return to the old path, or step out over the precipice. 

The return to the old path means no change, but it will be familiar. It will be dull with no bright or new spots, familiar to the touch as a worn out blanket, its beauty faded with the passage of time. This path thrives on the repetition of the known. The same grayed colors, the same trees, the same plants, the same animals. The seasons here do not change; they are always the same. There is no growth here. There is no change. 

Yet, the precipice exposes all of my trembling fears and suppressed emotions. Going over it means leaping with a radical trust, a trust that the fall will not kill me, a trust that the rocks will not break me, a trust that the waves will not drown me. With so many risks, the old path appears as a warm and familiar embrace, though it will be filled with the same pains that have long haunted my heart. Choosing to fall into the abyss means choosing the unknown, foraging forward on a path that is strange and unwelcoming. But what life lies ahead of the abyss? What life may I find beyond the rocks and crashing waves? What calm may be found beyond the storm? 

Truthfully, I do not know and cannot know what lies beyond the precipice, beyond facing all the pains and fears that hold me back. But I do know that while there may be pain, there will be growth, that where there is the wild unknown, there will be newfound delights, that where there are crashing waves, there is the Lord’s mercy as He speaks boldly, “Put out into the deep.” 

And so, in an act of radical trust, I step forward. 

If this has been your journey, do not be afraid.

Christ sees us in our brokenness, and says to us, “Behold, I make all things new.” For though you may be in darkness now, there will soon be light. The journey to Calvary is arduous and painful. Death and dying to self in PPD and PPA is painful.

But you will see the resurrection, and you will be all the stronger for it. 

Do not be afraid to step over the precipice. I have been to the bottom of the abyss, and I have opened my wounds to the sea of Christ’s Mercy. And I can tell you that Christ is waiting to embrace you with open arms, to lead you to become the saint He has created you to be, to help You carry this Cross, and to make your heart become more like His.

The Art of Perseverance

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How Nursing Taught Me Hope and Perseverance in the Midst of Struggle, Part One

I always planned to nurse my children, and when I was pregnant with Madeleine, I anticipated the bond nursing would bring with great joy. I knew that it would not be without its challenges, but I was certain that those challenges would be temporary.

When Madeleine was born, I had an hour of skin-to-skin, or kangaroo care, with her before she was taken away for newborn checks. The hope of kangaroo care is that it will help the newborn regulate her body temperature, encourage bonding between mom and baby, and establish the nursing relationship if mom wishes to nurse.

<p value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">Madeleine didn't latch on during that hour, but did after her newborn checks. In that moment, I felt gratitude and elation. I felt profound wonder at what my body was able to do. After having grown a child within me, my body now had the ability to nourish that child. I was overwhelmed with joy.Madeleine didn’t latch on during that hour, but did after her newborn checks. In that moment, I felt gratitude and elation. I felt profound wonder at what my body was able to do. After having grown a child within me, my body now had the ability to nourish that child. I was overwhelmed with joy.

Nicholas captured that moment in a photo. Throughout the next three months, that photo became a reminder. That photo became my why.

Because that joy didn’t last.

Eager to move me out of the labor and delivery room and into the postpartum unit, my nurse told me to unlatch Madeleine so she could transfer me to a wheelchair. It had been fifteen minutes, she told me. That was enough. Never mind the fact that Madeleine was still actively nursing in that moment. And feeling caught off guard and vulnerable, I went against my gut, and I listened.

I have regretted it ever since.

In the postpartum unit, Madeleine wouldn’t latch. When she did latch, she wouldn’t suck. I was handed the pump and pumping parts and told I needed to pump every four hours minimum. Bottle feeding was not an option due to nipple confusion, so I had to syringe feed Madeleine anything I pumped. It was tedious. Because I didn’t anticipate having to pump while in the hospital, I didn’t have a hands free pumping bra, and so I had to attempt to nurse Madeleine, and then place her in her bassinet and hold the pump for the next fifteen minutes. I felt humiliated and vulnerable.

Getting Madeleine to successfully latch took pillows placed all around me, the IBLC (lactation consultant), and my husband, both of whom were doing different things to either support me or readjust Madeleine to encourage a proper latch. When she did latch and suck, it was incorrect and caused significant pain.

We stayed the maximum amount of time just so I could get as much help from the IBLCs as possible. One of them finally ended up getting Madeleine a pacifier because it seemed Madeleine didn’t know how to suck. She hoped that the pacifier might encourage the sucking reflex.

I will always wonder if unlatching her before she was finished in the delivery room caused some sort of negative association for her. If it somehow disrupted our relationship. We never found any sort of explanation for all the issues we had, and so I will always wonder if it all went back to that moment. That photo was the last positive picture of me nursing Madeleine until Madeleine turned four months old.

When we got home, it became worse. Trying to get Madeleine to eat resulted in crying. She would latch, suck for a minute, pull off screaming, and repeat. Getting her fed took upwards of an hour or more.

Madeleine holding onto my scapular after nursing.

I spent a lot of time crying. I had anxiety attacks before going to bed. I worried about ever getting sleep. I worried about getting her fed. There were times when she wouldn’t eat and we would have to feed her from a syringe. I would frantically pump while Nick tried to keep her calm. The only thing that gave me any hope, that brought me any peace, was seeing Madeleine repeatedly grab hold of my scapular during or after nursing.

Madeleine was born on the feast of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel after I prayed a novena to Our Lady of Mt. Carmel. When I saw Madeleine holding my scapular, I knew that Mary was telling me that all would be well. I didn’t know how, but somehow, all would be well.

We saw the lactation consultant at the pediatrician many times. She could not figure out what was going on with Madeleine. Overactive let down was a suggested possibility, but it didn’t quite fit. They said reflux didn’t fit either. I was finally handed a nipple shield and just told to use that, but even that had mixed results. The only thing that ever worked was getting Madeleine to suck on her pacifier and then rapidly doing a “bait and switch” so that she ended up nursing without noticing that she had latched.

When she was between two-three weeks old, she was nearing four or five hours of refusing to eat. I called her pediatrician, and was told to pump and give her a bottle. I didn’t want to do so, because I was so worried about making it even harder to convince Madeleine to nurse. But I was more worried about her being fed, and so I immediately listened. I was home alone, and so I pumped while Madeleine cried. I remember feeling like I had failed her, and wondered why I hadn’t just given her the bottle sooner.

Nick giving Madeleine a bottle at around four weeks old.

When we were out of the house, it was worse. My arms and hands ached from holding her. To even consider feeding, Madeleine required that I stand and rock her while also quickly switching out the pacifier, keeping covered, keeping her properly supported, and ensuring a good latch. I remember feeling so weak and hating how much it all hurt my hands. I didn’t know it, but I had Rheumatoid Arthritis. Nursing Madeleine made that pain even worse.

She nursed best in the rocking chair at home, which made my whole body stiff and achy. At the time, I thought this was normal. I thought it was because of sitting so much.

I don’t know why I didn’t quit. It would have been easier. But during the hardest moments, during the moments when Madeleine would scream and scream, during the moments when I would cry, during the moments when I felt so deeply broken and that I had failed, I found myself praying.

Somehow, there was this quiet stillness. Somehow, I had hope and trust that it would get better. And I was determined to help it get better. I set goals for myself. Make it to three months. Make it to six months. Make it to a year.

I wanted that quiet time with my daughter. I wanted that bond. I wanted those memories. And so through prayer and sheer grit, I made it happen.

And somehow, magically, at three months, Madeleine decided that nursing wasn’t so bad. Something just clicked for her, and things became easier. There were so many moments before then when giving up seemed the better option. In those moments, however, my heart would whisper, “No, not yet. Try another day. This is not the end.”

Milk after a pumping session at work.

And it was not.

I pumped every two to four hours at work for six and a half months. I dealt with low supply and researched methods and supplements needed to ensure I was able to keep feeding Madeleine. I had to advocate for myself and ask for a space to pump. At one point, I was given a space filled with windows and no curtains and had to ask for curtains. I dealt with students ignoring signage and walking in unannounced while I was pumping. I dealt with adults not understanding what the sign was for and coming in anyway.

It was all worth it.

Nursing Madeleine at 11 months old.

I ended up nursing Madeleine until she was 19 months old. It was a beautiful gift to us both. I learned so much about giving of myself to others and persevering through difficult moments.

I had hoped that nursing with Mariana would come more easily. And while at first it did, my experience with Mariana taught me about a different sort of perseverance that I will explore in the post next week.

A quick note: to the mothers that wanted to nurse but could not, to the moms that exclusively pump, to the moms that use formula for any reason: you are enough. You have not failed. You are loving your child by keeping them fed. You still know the sleepless nights. You still know those quiet moments. None of you are less than any other mother. You are beautiful, you are a daughter of God, and you are still giving your child the gift of yourself and life, no matter how your child is fed.

Daring Greatly

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I resigned my teaching position this past Tuesday.

It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made, and yet, simultaneously, it has been one of the easiest.

It is hard to leave what we know. We like the familiar. We enjoy routine. And…we also like regular paychecks and the stability of having a current position. Additionally, I truly love teaching! It is a passion of mine, and there is nothing quite so rewarding as watching students studiously engage with Shakespeare after discovering that there is a treasure trove of bawdy jokes hidden underneath his foreign language and seeing a struggling student truly get a difficult concept for the first time. It is invigorating to see students engage in our current events through the lens of the classics, and I will truly miss that.

I gave a lesson to my students earlier this year about identity, in which I had them make identity charts to practice characterization. When making my own identity chart, I wrote the following, “daughter of God, wife, mother, teacher.” I told the students, “These are the four things that most define me, and they go in that order. I have to be a daughter of God before I can be a wife, a wife before I can be a mother, a mother before I can be a teacher.”

Our lovely Mariana Caeli was born in October, and I went on maternity leave. Mariana’s life has brought so much love and laughter into our home. She is so different from her older sister, Madeleine. Mariana is a quietly happy, sensitive soul. She reminds me to find the quiet and choose joy, while her sister Madeleine shows me the joy in exuberant laughter and persistence. Mariana’s life has in and of itself been a new beginning for our family.

It has not been without darkness, however.

At Mariana’s first well-appointment after we brought her, her pediatrician’s office had concerns about her weight. This prompted that pediatrician’s office to schedule office visits for the next four days in a row. They had me start a routine of triple feeding in which I nursed Mariana, gave her a bottle, and pumped, every 2-3 hours. They had no plan for me to stop this, though this is supposed to be a short term intervention lasting a maximum of 72 hours. They knew I had a history of anxiety, and yet, the urgency with which they were talking about Mariana’s weight made me feel that they were concerned that she might just waste away.

We switched pediatrician practices, and were told that all this was wholly unnecessary, but by that point, the damage had been done. My anxiety was on high alert, and now I needed to work with an IBCLC to stop this routine without absolutely destroying my milk supply.

Once the isolation of Covid was added in along with my chronic pain, it was a tried and true recipe for postpartum anxiety and depression.

Each week I was grateful to be home with my girls. And each week I dreaded going back to work. I began to have panic attacks about work. Would I be able to keep up with pumping? How would I fare with the commute? What about sleep? How could I take care of myself and be a good wife and be a good mom and be a good teacher?

I kept trying to turn off the thoughts and just enjoy the time. I kept telling myself, “I can do hard things. I can make it through this.” I felt so much guilt for dreading the return to work, because I truly do love teaching. I felt like I was drowning.

As I reflected and prayed on the matter, I recalled that I start each year with a lesson on Theodore Roosevelt’s “Man in the Arena” speech. For those unfamiliar, I’ve put it below:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt, 1910

After reading the speech, I then prompt students to reflect on what it means to fail while daring greatly. We discuss the value of failure and the lessons that can be gleaned from it. We also discuss the final line, “so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” I ask them to consider what this may mean in light of their faith, and I lead them in discussing what it is to live their faith on fire for the Lord. We discuss the stories of the martyrs and look at how they have failed in the eyes of the world, but in the eyes of the Lord they know the “triumph of high achievement.” I want to instill in my students the value of failure and by doing so help them to embrace a radical vulnerability. I want them to welcome failure as a friend. To see failure as an opportunity for growth.

As I recalled this speech and the lessons I wish my students to clean from it, I had to ask myself: Am I daring greatly? Am I embracing the possibility of failure? Am I meeting life with a radical vulnerability?

And so last week, I reached out to my school to prepare for my return. And last week, they offered me a lifeline: the opportunity to resign if I felt I could not handle it. And as I reflected on the desire to be willing to fail while daring greatly and to be radically vulnerable, my decision became clear. I will be forever grateful to my administrators for their understanding.

Leaving was hard, not only because I felt an obligation to fulfill my contract, but also because I struggled with wondering if I was just giving up. I thought about my students, and I was sad that I wouldn’t see them again. But then I remembered what I had told them: “I have to be a daughter of God before I can be a wife, a wife before I can be a mother, a mother before I can be a teacher.” And then the decision became easy.

Throughout this entire postpartum period, I realize I have been consumed by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of giving up. Fear of being an imposter. Fear of being not enough.

I realized it was my fear holding me back. Would I be able to get a new position if I chose to return? If I took this time for myself and my family and explored these different things, would I fail? Would I be a terrible stay at home mom? Would I be able to break out of survival mode without my work?

And then I remembered the lesson I give each year on daring greatly and realized none of that matters.

It doesn’t matter if I fail. It doesn’t matter if no one likes my work. It doesn’t matter if I’m not always the best stay at home mom. What matters is that I try and do it anyway in spite of my failures, so that I will not be one of the poor and timid souls that know neither victory nor defeat.

And so when I focus on daring greatly, I am so excited about the possibilities ahead of me. I am going to be writing here about life, faith, fitness, and motherhood. I’m going to chronicle my journey with postpartum anxiety and my fitness journey. I have the Great Books series planned out! I am going to explore freelance options and tutoring. I’m going to work on my novel. I have some exciting projects planned that I will eventually be able to share with you all. And most importantly, I am going to focus on getting myself well again so that I can be a daughter of God, a wife, and a mother to two beautiful girls. Once I am well again, I will consider returning to teaching.

Anxiety has been my dragon, but I know that it is a dragon I can slay with God, my husband, and my family all rallying to my support. And rather than living in fear, today I choose a new beginning. I choose to see an opportunity for growth during this period.  I will embrace opportunities for failure. I will embrace vulnerability. Most importantly, I choose to dare greatly, for it is not the critic who counts, nor the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or how the doer of deeds could have done them better. Rather, the credit belongs to the man in the arena, for if he fails, he fails while daring greatly.