I knew motherhood was never going to be easy. 

I knew the newborn days were going to be exhausting. 

I knew I was going to be sleep deprived.

I knew was going to be worried about my baby. 

I knew the days were going to be long. 

I knew I was going to evolve into a new identity—that is becoming a mother.

My health professionals, my mother, and friends who are mothers as well as the baby books all warned me to expect this. 

Not long after my beautiful boy was born I felt something wasn’t right. 

Hiding within the skeletons in my deep and dark closet was nonexistent self-worth and self-love for myself. The past had resurfaced in a way I had never experienced. 

The anxious little girl from my childhood visited. 

She shook me vigorously, injecting a wave of anxiety and doubts into my veins. 

But she always reminded me of my obsession to be perfect.

The bulimic and anorexic girl from my teens whispered in my ear that my body is still not good enough and that is it fatter and uglier after having a baby.

The abused young woman from my twenties isolated me from my husband, family, and friends. 

I never imagined motherhood to feel like this.

I was beyond exhaustion. 

I was wired all day and night.

The days were extremely long.

The more I isolated myself from my husband the more I despised him.

And I despised myself. 

The notion of the “perfect mother” was desperately clinging by a thread.

Once that thread snapped, I broke. 

I broke down so hard. 

The brokenness was more than the newness of becoming a first-time mother.

The brokenness was more than never achieving perfectionism in motherhood.

The brokenness ripped off my mask I was hiding behind.

The brokenness stripped me to be to my bare existence, ending up in a psychiatric ward feeling nothing but numbness, anger, and shame.

I did not know who I was anymore.

My demons consumed who I was.

However, to someone, I was something.

To my son, I was his mother.

It was his love that healed me.

The medication took my numbness and anger away.

The professional help overcame the shame. 

Therapy brought my husband and me back together.

But it was my son’s love that healed me.

It is precisely that pure, unconditional, untainted, innocent love that surges out of a little being brought me back to life. 

My son sees beyond my brokenness. 

My son does not identify me as a struggling mother.

My son is elated and his eyes light up when I enter the room.

He goes past the emptiness within my soul overflows it with love. 

Not long ago, my son spontaneously thanked me for everything I did for him.

It is these moments that affirm my worth as a mother. 

Some days it is still exhausting.

Some days there are still inklings of doubt.

Some days go within the blink of the eye.

Some days I worry about my little boy.

Yes, motherhood broke the essence of who I am.

Slowly the brokenness is being healed. 

Piece by piece.

Day by day.

But it is my son’s love that is healing me. 

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