By Brianna Forsman 
“I can’t do this anymore,” I moaned as I sat on the edge of the bed. Gingerly yet clumsily, I swung my swollen legs onto the mattress and eased my expanding tummy to the side. Every muscle in my body ached, lightning pain shooting through my nerves with each movement. I engulfed myself with pillows, one here, one there, all nested around me in a useless attempt at creating an illusion of comfort and bringing sleep.
I had been warned of the misery of pregnancy, but I never dreamed how those last weeks would push me to the edge physically, emotionally, and mentally. The physical pain paled in comparison to the longing in my heart—an eagerness and anxiousness that was almost unbearable as we approached the last days before meeting my dream come true . . . the child I had prayed for my entire life. The wait felt eternal, like my whole world had stopped and time refused to move forward. I just couldn’t imagine going one more day without feeling my baby in my arms instead of kicking my ribs and smothering my lungs.
Tears streamed down my face as my body shook, and I breathlessly whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.” It had already been a brutally long labor, and I had hours still left to go. I hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, had been poked and prodded for days, and fear had taken hold of me as the words “emergency C-section” began floating around my hospital room. Exhausted and shattered, I lay helplessly and watched as my husband and baby were rushed out of the room as it spun and slowly went dark.
“I can’t do this anymore.” He didn’t understand the words. His massive blue eyes blinked silently at me in the night. The clock’s neon light glowed eerily in the silence. 2:05 a.m. I was clocking less than half of the hours of sleep an adult allegedly needs per night, none of them in a row, and my body and mind had reached their breaking point. I read online somewhere that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture in some countries. In a weird and morbid sort of way, I found a little validation in knowing that what I was going through was so agonizing it was used to force people to crack. I brushed my finger lightly across his soft cheek. A tiny smile formed at the corner of his perfectly pink lips, and my heart fluttered a little. Just enough to push through one more dark, long, lonely night.
The dark nights stretched into dark days as postpartum depression cast its oppressive shadows across my heart and soul. “I can’t do this anymore,” I hissed in angry prayer as bitterness gripped my heart. Every day was a literal fight for my life as I waged war in my own mind. This was never supposed to be part of my story, I seethed. This was all I ever wanted. How could I love my son with such an intense and deep love that I had never known before yet loathe every day of my existence?
“I can’t do this anymore!” I sobbed into my husband’s chest as guilt racked through my entire body. We had added another baby into the family, and I never imagined the ache it would bring to love two tiny people so completely, so fully, that the thought of having to split time between the two caused my own heart to rip in half. I wanted nothing more than to spend every waking second of every day caring for the sole needs of each child. I could hardly bear the weight that came with trying to find sufficient time for them both.
“I can’t do this anymore.” These words have been texted more times than I can count to my friends on the days when the bickering, the squabbling, the demands, the lack of sleep, the hormones, the anxiety, the mental load, the household chores, the isolation, the whining, the repeated questions, the lack of stimulating conversation, the general overwhelming weight that is motherhood has overtaken me.
These words have been shouted at my husband during an argument as I wonder what happened to us. When we feel more like roommates or coworkers than we do romantic partners. When I long for the days of deep, uninterrupted conversation, or relaxing weekends.
“You can’t do this anymore,” the lying thoughts that have thrown judgment at me and shrouded my soul in doubt that I could ever be what my incredible children deserve.
Yet each time I have sobbed, yelled, hissed, or thought those five little words, somehow I kept going. We mothers have a quiet strength that is breathtaking to behold. I don’t know of any mother who hasn’t reached those “I can’t do this anymore” moments. We have all been shattered, worn down, terrified, defeated, and broken in a million different ways. But we don’t give up. This love we hold for our babies is fiercer than any obstacle that comes our way.
I hardly recognize the woman I was six years ago when I started my motherhood journey. Each of those moments that broke me had an end, and in that end, I came out changed. Softer, yet stronger. Tougher, yet more tender. Braver, yet somehow even more vulnerable.
Motherhood has tested me and nearly pushed me over the edge on a practically daily basis. But it has also taught me I can do this. I am doing this. Because, mama, we are stronger than we ever imagined. We are more resilient than we ever dreamed. And a mama’s love? It can do anything.
by Alicia Thompson 
by Jessica Urlichs 
