“I am a strong, capable Black woman.”
In many seasons, it’s been true. But life has consistently shown me that those first two adjectives are subjective and anything but consistent. I try to recall when I finally made the admission that “weak” and “unqualified” seemed more fitting.
Was it when our 3rd baby came along 14 months after his big brother’s birth, giving me the proud, yet very unexpected title of mama to 3 kids, ages 3 and under? Or maybe it was the perpetual aches and pains induced by my stretched and weakened core that never fully healed from births one and two before I demanded it expand once again. Was it the hormones that flushed my system and raged through my body, abundant and unregulated? Surely it was the sudden, explosive anger that made me spiral into guilt and anxiety; the subsequent panic attacks that left me gasping for breath and contemplating running out the door and leaving these cherished babies behind for a “better mom”?
I recall when I stood by the kitchen counter, gripping the cool, granite edge in sweaty palms, eyes closed, drawing in deep breaths and dragging, willing myself out the black hole of depression that threatened to suck me in, to never see the light of joy again. “Strong?” “Capable?” Those descriptors were in the far reaches of my mind, well outside of my present reality. The mommy blogger mantras and Instagram quotables of “I am enough,” “This too shall pass,” were irritatingly inapplicable as I wallowed in weakness. Even more frustrating? “He won’t give you more than you can bear” or “He gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers.” (That kind of theological nonsense keeps you in the PIT, okay?) And the internet mommy winos who reminded me that “It’s five o clock somewhere” only served to make me thankful I was only a moderate enjoyer of wine, otherwise I’d surely have been an alcoholic by that point.
Pep talks had no place here. There was no pulling myself up by my bootstraps and convincing myself that I could do this. There were no self care days and mommy breaks, no wine and certainly no Jesus jukes that could trick me into believing that the hardship I was experiencing was anything but that: hard.
But promises? Those were something solid I could cling to. In a season when the light and joy of good days were frequently overshadowed by the dark days, making it seem as though the good had never existed at all, I needed to grasp tightly to truth, not temporary, pithy mantras that disintegrated into dust when I reached for them.
circa 2016
I didn’t always or often read these promises in the midst of the spiral. It was typically beforehand, when I read them religiously, devoured them like food, and drank them down like a traveler at his last oasis for miles. I read them til I could recite them, and like pilgrim Christian who despaired of his captivity before realizing he had the key to escape all along, I put a lifesaver around my waist before I was ever thrown out into the deep end.
Preparation didn’t mean prevention though, and over time the repeated instances of doubt and despair withered my hope, and I wasn’t sure the roots would hold. But I’m living proof that a bruised reed he will not break. The Lord mercifully sustained me, and I have no doubt that I didn’t and don’t keep myself in the faith.
There is no spiritual bow to tie on this story. If I’m honest, in hindsight I now believe that some additional care via a medical professional would have likely been helpful and was probably necessary. It’s honestly one of my biggest regrets from that season, but that’s a conversation for another day. And while that particularly difficult year has come and gone, similar struggles have popped up in my periphery that I must actively been on guard against, not only with the Word but also by having people in my corner who speak truth and offer help.
I do sometimes give myself pep talks now. Encouragement does have its place! (And is it even possible to be a good parent if there aren’t pep talks peppered in?) But after experiencing the limitations of positive affirmations, I’ve learned that sometimes you don’t need positivity or pep, but a promise.
on the way home 