Please Keep Checking in on Me

Why Checking in on Loved Ones Matters Long After the Crisis Has Passed

My baby will be one year old later in September. As his birthday quickly approaches I noticed my anxiety started to increase. I feel all the typical pressure a mom feels around a first birthday in our current society. Do I need a balloon arch? A smash cake? A trendy birthday party invite that somehow uses the word “one” with a pun? What’s the theme?

I confided in a friend during one of my son’s naps over a voice message I sent to her from my back deck. I watched my garden full of fall colors and sipped my pumpkin coffee. Just a year ago, I was sitting in this exact spot rubbing a big, pregnant belly praying for the arrival of my son. I remember the sense of urgency and uneasiness creeping into my body in the final days before his arrival. It’s almost as if my body knew something would go wrong before anyone else did.

I told my friend about my mixed emotions. I felt like I had to celebrate this milestone in the way social media portrays with extravagant gifts and big birthday parties. But I also felt shame for the part of me that simply didn’t want to. I felt immense joy that my son was nearing one year old and simultaneous sadness over all the painful reminders of what my life looked like a year ago.

She replied with a simple acknowledgement: it’s your son’s first birthday but it is also the anniversary of the most traumatic day of your life. There is space to celebrate and mourn both.

I went on to journal about how I felt like I should have things figured out by now. The misconception that the first year of motherhood is the hardest part surrounded me. I felt increasingly lonely in motherhood as friends stopped checking in on me and assumed I’d settled into new rhythms by now. I also felt shame that I hadn’t. Was there something wrong with me for thinking this was all still so hard?

There are a few mom friends I have who are like a lifeline to me. They check in every week. We talk about how everything is harder when you’re sleep deprived and how lonely it can feel when your baby needs something and you look around to realize there is no one there to take care of you, but you need to be taken care of too.

These friends remind me of this Henri Nouwen quote:

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness—that is a friend who cares."

My first year of motherhood has been marked by a sense of powerlessness. I’ve been humbled in a way I never imagined by my lack of control, my lack of understanding, and my desperate need for God and His people.

Having friends who help me name and process my experiences has helped me exponentially. They have sat with me and instead of trying to fix or diminish my experiences they have looked at the reality with me and echoed, this is not fair.

I wasn’t prepared for the trauma I experienced. I wasn’t prepared to walk through the shame and fear and pain that came with it. I wasn’t prepared for the mountain of doubts and questions that continue to pile up.

I also wasn’t prepared to connect more with other women and mothers in a way I never knew I needed.

I didn’t know I needed the mom at the coffee shop to stop what she was doing and tell me you’re doing a really good job when I was feeding my baby in public for the first time.

I needed the friend who said, it’s ok if it’s still really hard. You don’t have to pretend to be better with me.

I also needed the friend who reached out and said, I know we haven’t talked in a long time but I see what you’re going through and I wanted you to know you aren’t alone. I’ve been there too.

Sometimes life looks great on the outside. I’m still conflicted about my son’s birthday. I haven’t decided if I’ll get a lot of balloons or if I’ll bake a cake. Maybe, on the outside it will look like a sweet celebration. (And I hope it will be!)

But I’m grateful that behind the scenes I have a few people who are willing to check in on me and sit with me in the pain.

None of us have it all together. So let this be your reminder to keep checking in on your friends because old wounds can reopen and happy milestones can simultaneously be sad.