Motherhood Stripped

By Erin Joyce Miller

Motherhood Stripped is a guide to understanding the anxiety in motherhood and how to heal from it one layer at a time. In part 1, the author carefully outlines her own experience with anxiety and overwhelm in motherhood to display how quietly and easily any mother can fall into this mindset as well as creating a sense of truly being seen and a s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Momosa Publishing LLC
• Release date: Nov 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781950459063

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© 2020 by Erin Miller

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any other information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America

Published in Hellertown, PA

Cover designer Kristie Zurmehly

Cover illustration by Lana Elanor

Interior designer Joanna Williams

Author photos by AnneMarie Hamant

Library of Congress Control Number 2020911256

ISBN 978-1-950459-05-6

ISBN 978-1-950459-06-3 (e-book)

2 46 810 97 53 1 paperback

For Dustin, Hannah, and John Paul.

You’re my people.

I love you bigger than the entire universe.

CONTENTS

THE ANXIETY ATTACK

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE: HINDSIGHT

1: First Comes Love

2: Then Comes Marriage

3: Then Comes Baby

4: Then Comes Another Baby

5: And Then Comes Overwhelm and Anxiety

PART TWO: FORESIGHT

The Layered Growth Method

Layer 1: Your Foundation

Layer 2: Boundaries and Relationships

Layer 3: Managing Your Energy

Layer 4: Expansion

The Final Chapter

JOURNAL PROMPTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE ANXIETY ATTACK

IT WAS AN EARLY MARCH DAY. I don’t remember the date exactly, but I honestly don’t remember all that much from that time in my life. I was simply surviving, so the details are fuzzy and innocuous. I know that it had been warm enough that the day prior I had taken my 17-month-old little boy to a playground to meet a friend. While so many details are blurry and out of focus for that day, too, I remember exactly what he was wearing and how in love I was in that moment looking at him. He was wearing a sweat suit. It was heather gray and navy with a number patch sewn on the left breast of the zip-up sweat jacket and a little hood on the back. It was in that moment I realized my baby was becoming a toddler. I remember him standing there with his small, yet powerful stature, wearing sunglasses and smiling at me with a mouth not quite yet full of teeth. I felt a flood of joy and gratitude for motherhood. I wasn’t meant to be or do anything else but stand beside my beautiful boy on that early spring day in the crisp, fresh air.

Not every day was bad, you see. That’s what makes it so hard to navigate. It’s a little bit (or a lot) like riding a roller coaster of emotion and confidence. It’s a relentless tug of war, convincing yourself one day that you’re doing just fine, maybe even succeeding in motherhood, but the next day, you can hardly function. This was that day for me. It hit me like a ton of bricks that I never saw coming.

The next day began like any other. I had a photo shoot and another feeling of unease. This part still confuses me. Photography is my love and passion and continues to be, but I regularly felt massive anxiety when I left my house to go to photo shoots. At this point, all I can conclude is that I was overworked and my body was trying to communicate this. And when you don’t listen to what your body is saying, it gets louder.

Anyway, on this day, my body was communicating by beating the shit out of me. In the moments that I felt knocked down, I couldn’t quite put my finger on the feeling that sat inside me. It felt like pins and needles, dread, or fear. I had been experiencing that feeling for a few months now, on and off, but it was even heavier on this day. I really don’t know what it was, but it made me feel like I wanted to climb out of my own skin.

I remember when I was a young, bright-eyed, new school counselor talking to a friend who had already embarked on the journey of motherhood, and she shared her story of postpartum anxiety. She explained, I constantly felt like there was a tiger in the room. Back then, I didn’t get it. What did that mean? Well, I’m pretty sure this is what it meant: Imagine needing to defend yourself from death at a moment’s notice. Just imagine that?! The adrenaline, fear, and feeling like you’re walking on eggshells. THIS is what it felt like.

In hindsight, I thank this friend for talking about her postpartum anxiety openly with me. I didn’t realize the magnitude of her experience or how many women have had and will have an experience similar to hers—and mine.

On my way to my photography session, I decided to stop at my best friend’s house. She had a baby a few weeks earlier. Any time I had photo sessions in my hometown, which is a few towns south of where I live now, I always piggy-backed them with visits to family and friends.

I pulled into my best friend’s townhouse neighborhood. The houses all looked the same—new construction townhouses that stood three stories tall, one next to the other, as if they were linking arms. The townhouses had only subtle differences, so subtle I can’t even tell you what they were. The road was not yet fully paved, and the sewer caps swelled a bit higher than the rest of the road. Curbs stood taller than the average, and mounds of dirt and land lined the background, patiently waiting for more identical townhomes to stand.

Because the townhouses were so similar, it was hard for me to tell which house I was looking for, even on a day that I was alert and felt good. But that day, I felt completely lost. I stopped at the curb, knowing my best friend’s home was one of the two outside my passenger window.

I’ve been here so many freaking times. Why the hell am I so beat that I have no idea which house I need to walk into? I asked myself. My self-talk was a bitch. Think, think, think. I had a little grin as I pictured Winnie the Pooh saying those words. I spotted a Sixers garden flag at the bottom of the steps and thanked God for the clue. My friend’s husband is an avid Sixers fan, and his enthusiasm saved me from knocking on the wrong door and spiraling into even more shame and self-judgement.

As I got out of my car, my breathing was labored, I was light-headed and out of breath. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Great, so there are tigers and elephants. What next? I began to focus on my physical symptoms, which naturally made them worse. I felt like I was going to vomit everywhere. Oh, God. Am I sick? Stomach ailments had become a phobia at that point in my life. The dreaded stomach bug. Oh, God. That’s what it is. I’m gonna be sick, I thought. And then my phone rang to signal an incoming text message.

Ugh. Billy has the stomach bug, said my friend on the other line.

I immediately felt even more nauseous. The friend who I met with yesterday at the playground? Yeah, that was her, and Billy is her son—the son I was in contact with. The words rung in my ears over and over again, and with each ring I felt worse. Maybe I got it, too?

I slowly walked up the stairs to my friend’s house as if I were gliding. It was four, maybe five stairs—run-of-the mill cement stairs. I imagine there was a hand rail, too, but you can guess that there’s no way I’d remember this detail if I couldn’t even remember what house my best friend lived in. If there was a rail, I’m positive my hand was white knuckling that thing. Somehow, I got myself up those stairs without falling or fainting. That was a win. I remember so little at this point. My thoughts were snowballing around my physical symptoms, trying to investigate every single thing. I was desperate to figure out what the heck was happening to me and what I should do. I had to work for Pete’s sake! How on earth was I going to show up to a photo shoot and pretend I was fine? I’m strong and I’m stubborn, but this was bigger than me. I was looking for the white flag.

My best friend greeted me as if it were any other day, and so did her puggle, a little guy who was ecstatic to greet any visitor with snorting hellos and jumping around on short little legs. I bent down to pet him, and, for a brief moment, I could breathe. Any moment that I can connect with an animal, I can breathe. After greeting the sweet puggle, I carefully raised myself back up on my shaking legs, and I smiled with my lips but not my eyes. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength. The couch was about two steps away from the front door, thank God, and the bathroom about two steps away from the door in the other direction. I needed to know where the toilet was in case I felt the urge to throw up.

I walked to the L-shaped couch and sat down as my friend sat across from me on the other side. I think she started talking at this point, but I don’t know for sure. I do know that I was coming up with quite the plan for when I was going to throw up. My mind was in full-on panic mode, trying to figure out how I would explain that to my friend. She had a brand-new baby in the house. I can’t bring these germs into a house with a brand-new baby. Oh, God, what am I doing? And this photo shoot! It’s for a six-month-old baby. This is irresponsible. But what if I’m not sick? Maybe I’m overreacting. Overreacting to what, though? WHAT IS GOING ON?! My mind raced.

I sank further and further into the plush, beige couch with each repeat of stomach bug in my head. I remember my friend was talking, but I couldn’t make out the words. She sounded eerily similar to Charlie Brown’s teacher.

I looked at my friend, and it felt like the face I had on wasn’t even my own.

I don’t feel well. Oh, God. I said it out loud.

Yeah. Um. You kinda look like shit. Are you okay?

I don’t know. I don’t think so.

Instantly, I was declining faster. I felt like I had no blood pumping through me. My heart was racing, and my hands were clammy. Reluctantly, I called my client and told her I was unwell and needed to cancel our session. This part was really hard for me. My client was a friend of my best friend, and she had also become a friend of mine through the years. I felt mixed emotions: Because I knew her, I felt that it was okay to cancel, but at the same time I felt guilty for disappointing her. (While this won’t be a part of what I share in this book, it’s profound that this beautiful mother, years later, also suffered from anxiety. I have been able to be a coach for her, and we’ve become even closer friends. It’s really quite poetic.)

After a complete flop of a visit with my best friend, I slowly made my way back to my car, promising her I’d come back another day, while secretly wishing I could go home and never leave again. I wondered, Why though? Why is today so hard?

Driving home, I sat in a dirty bath of guilt and shame. I felt so out of control, but I didn’t even know what I was losing control of! Then my hands went numb. And then my face. I remember smacking my lips together, trying to see if I felt anything, but nothing. It reminded me of the first time I drank whiskey and lost the feeling in my lips, except this time, instead of being paired with giggles, flirtation, and laughter, the numbness was combined with fear of losing my life.

I called my mother-in-law, who was watching my kids. Hey, I’m on my way back home. I think I need to go to urgent care. I don’t feel well.

I was incredibly embarrassed to make this phone call. But my mother-in-law, concerned on the other end of the line, assured me that she’d be able to stay with my kids until I got home.

I arrived at urgent care and immediately second-guessed my decision. Do I belong here? Is it worth going into a sauna of germs? I pulled one door open, leading me to another set. I carefully grabbed the handles of the doors in the places that I hoped the fewest amount of people probably touched them. I slowly made my way down the aisle of outdated chairs to the front desk.

She doesn’t give a shit, was the first thing that crossed my mind as I looked at the receptionist. She’s probably thinking about her lunch break, and I feel like I’m standing here in front of her fighting for my life. The contrast between the two different worlds the receptionist and I stood in while looking at each other across the Formica countertop was nearly comical. Yet it created a lump of grief in my throat. I hardly recognized who I was.

I signed in, then I was told to take a seat. The fabric on the disgusting seats reminded me of one of Zack Morris’s sweaters from Saved by the Bell—straight out of the 90s. Why does it take decades for doctors to update the decor in their offices? I’ll never understand this.

I carefully placed my hands in my lap. I clutched my cell phone in hand as a buffer to my thoughts and texted my husband, Dustin, to let him know where I was. I secretly wanted someone to save me—to literally scoop me up and wash away the dread and fear that filled the space of me that used to be unshakable joy and love. But instead I sat alone. Oh, I was so alone—both physically in the waiting room and within the core of my being. I felt a quiet and darkness that is unfathomable and full of intense confusion. For me—a mother, happily married wife, and photographer who is around so many people all of the time—I had never felt so alone in my life. As I sat with my swirling, compulsive thoughts, I realized something. My symptoms were dissipating. My hands weren’t as clammy, my heart rate was maybe under 100 beats per minute by now, and I think I felt a pang of hunger. Wasn’t I sick? And then I was slapped in the face. Hard. No, not by another waiting patient, but by this realization.

I had just had an anxiety attack.

I laughed. I actually sat in that stiff waiting room chair and laughed. Me! A certified counselor, trained to support others who deal with anxiety, had an anxiety attack and didn’t even know it. Holy shit, do they suck. No wonder people think they’re dying!

I stayed to see the doctor, figuring it couldn’t hurt. The nurse took me back and asked why I was in. I reluctantly and shamefully explained why I thought I was there. She took my vitals and handed me the classic line, The doctor will be right in.

When the doctor walked in, he asked me the same questions. Again, I shamefully reiterated and relived one of the worst experiences of my life that happened approximately 15 minutes prior.

Do you have kids? the doctor asked

Yes. 17 months and almost 3 years old, I answered. What does this have to do with anything?

He responded, How is your relationship with your husband?

This caught me off-guard. I thought, Okay, seriously? What the hell is this? I became defensive, so I replied with a snarky tone, It’s great. He’s my favorite person on the planet, and I adore him, which is all true, despite my defensiveness, by the way.

Do you feel safe in your relationship? the doctor asked.

I thought, Okay, listen. First, I am very grateful that these questions are asked because so many women are in abusive relationships and knowing that a doctor is concerned for you and there to help is critically validating. But intuitively I knew that this wasn’t going to lead to a solution to why I just had an anxiety attack, or more importantly, it wasn’t going to get to the root, so I gave him my honest answer and said, I feel very safe in my relationship.

The doctor then wrote a prescription for daily anti-anxiety medication. The nurse walked me to the counter, assuring me that anxiety was super common and then shared all about her college-aged daughter’s fight with anxiety and how she has to take medication, too. The nurse was so compassionate, yet it felt belittling.

Is this a joke? This is it? Just a script? No investigation as to why this happened? No questions of what I eat or if I take care of myself? Not even a question of if I drink enough water in a day? I kept thinking, This isn’t ME. Something is WRONG. I smiled and checked out. After all, I had no idea how to advocate for myself because I had no idea what the hell happened to me. I just wanted to sleep.

After my seven-minute drive home, I pulled up to our house. Dustin had just gotten home from work. He stood out front of our house with my mother-in-law, watching our kids run around, all bundled up in their winter gear while the spring weather continued to tease us.

So, you’re okay? Dustin asked.

There it was again. That shame. Oh, God, it grew so big. With each passing moment, it grew bigger, weighing on my chest, making it hard to breath. And then there was that lump in my throat. I fought with myself for what felt like several minutes—but was likely only five seconds. I wondered if I should lie about how I was feeling or if I should be completely honest. Honesty is the best policy, right? But I felt like lying would be filled with a little less shame—maybe. I looked up at Dustin with tear-filled eyes. Honesty won. I said, I think it was an anxiety attack, and the doctor gave me a script. It felt like a weight was lifted off me when I said it out loud, but it was accompanied with earth shattering vulnerability.

Oh. Are you gonna get the script filled? Dustin asked. I think he hugged me, too. In fact, I’m positive he did. And like so many times before, even though I don’t have a clear memory of it from that day, I’m sure I curled my head into the nook of his chest, balled my fists up under my chin, and quietly let a few tears fall down my face. And just when I let some walls down is likely when I wiped my tears and pushed him away. It was my pattern.

I don’t know. My intense shame was met with his benign ignorance mixed with discomfort. I guess I’ll head in to make dinner.

And so I did. That was it. Aside from my wedding day and having my children, I had just experienced the most profound, life-altering event in my life, and it was summed up with, I guess I’ll head in to make dinner.

The evening was spent like any other, except I was profoundly more exhausted than I was most other nights. Naturally, I ignored my fatigue because I didn’t know what to do except to keep doing what I always did: live with overwhelm and exhaustion by keeping busy and ignoring what was really going on.

In hindsight, I’m angry. I’m angry that my husband and mother-in-law didn’t know how to respond. I’m angry that they didn’t say, Let’s figure this out together. Let’s get to the root of what’s going on here. I’m angry that they didn’t say, Go take a bath and go to bed. We will take care of everything tonight. I’m angry that they didn’t know how to help me.

But I didn’t know how to help me either, so how on earth could I have expected them to know?

INTRODUCTION

AFTER MY INITIAL ANXIETY ATTACK, I was determined to fight for my health by figuring out what was happening to me and why. So many women are handed a script, take the medication, and silently move through life in their loneliness and shame—now possibly with some side effects. It’s important to note that I won’t be discussing medication in this book. I encourage women to determine if medication is necessary (because sometimes it is), and I also encourage you to dig deep to heal the root of your anxiety. While medication might help the symptoms, it doesn’t necessarily treat the cause.

Throughout the course of my journey, I found I wasn’t the only one who struggled with anxiety. I also learned an incredible amount of valuable tools that pulled me out of my lowest low, and those assets continue to catapult me forward into a beautiful life I never imagined I could have designed for myself. I am writing this book to describe my journey and share my tools.

In the thick of my low, I had a strong desire to be open about my anxiety. No, not scream it from the rooftop open, but to share it where I felt safe and could connect with other women. One of the first times I felt safe to share was at a Barre3 class that I had been attending. One day, I was talking to some of the ladies as we slipped our shoes back on before heading back out into the big, scary world. I explained that I had been dealing with some anxiety and that sometimes I couldn’t make it to class because of it.

I was shocked. No, I was befuddled when all of the women responded with a variation of, Me, too.

Wait. Was this a coincidence? As I continued to share, I was met with more me, too’s. While you’d expect me to feel a camaraderie and sense of belonging, instead I felt angry. Not just angry, but livid. How on earth are this many women dealing with anxiety, and so few people are talking about it?! Why is there nowhere to go for support? Why are we all dealing with anxiety by ourselves, in isolated shame? If we as a society talked about this, Dustin and my mother-in-law would have greeted me with acceptance and support because they would have known HOW to do that and because I would have felt comfortable saying, Oh, hey! Just had an anxiety attack! If we talked about it, I wouldn’t have spent the entire day in my self-imposed darkness, wondering what was wrong with me because I would have been understood. If we had talked about it, I likely would not have ended up in darkness in the first place. I would have understood how to care for myself and not reach the depths of an illness that I didn’t even know I had invited myself into.

My fire was lit. This had to change. It’s a disservice to women out there that we are not creating a space to talk about this, normalize it, and know that we’re not alone in experiencing it.

According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, around 264 million people worldwide have an anxiety disorder, and women are nearly twice as likely as men to be diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in their lifetime. In the past year, the prevalence of anxiety disorders was significantly higher for females (23.4 percent) than for males (14.3 percent), with women being almost 10 percent more likely to suffer from anxiety than men.

But why? In the conversations I’ve had with women both locally and in my online community, I’ve found a very large percentage of women self-report that their anxiety began after having children. Myself included. That got me thinking.

An article on theconversation.com reported that, [Anxiety] could be because of differences in brain chemistry and hormone fluctuations. Reproductive events across a woman’s life are associated with hormonal changes, which have been linked to anxiety. This makes sense to me. It got me thinking about postpartum anxiety. My anxiety didn’t hit until my youngest was 14 months old. (Yup, you did your math right. Three months of having anxiety and not a clue I had until I suffered my anxiety attack) Many of the women I have spoken to describe anxiety as an uninvited guest that shows up and never leaves. How do we define this trend of women experiencing anxiety outside of the threshold of what’s considered postpartum anxiety? In our current culture, there seems to be a trend: If you have a baby, you are likely to experience anxiety.

Awesome. Glad people omitted this fun fact at my baby shower or when they were teaching me how my baby should latch onto my breast. Seems like an important detail, right?

However! I have good news. The goals of this book are to change the trajectory and storyline around motherhood, anxiety, and overwhelm. For that, I’m excited.

Throughout this book, I hope to share my personal story with you. Think of the nursery rhyme, First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. Notice there’s a period after the baby? This left the picture of life as a mother up to our imagination. I painted one hell of a gorgeous picture. In that picture, my hair was done, my makeup was on, and I was smiling a lot. And I was a REALLY