I always imagined I’d be the mom who had it all together—strategic, passionate, deeply maternal. I had dreamt of a big family for as long as I can remember, and children never felt like a burden to me. I knew motherhood would stretch me, but I believed it would be filled with joy and deep fulfilment. And in many ways, it has been. But what I didn’t expect was how profoundly and unexpectedly it would break me open.

When our first baby arrived, the baby blues felt like part of the growing pains—sleepless nights, less “me time,” the shifting of rhythms. When our second joined our family through adoption, it felt surprisingly manageable. He settled easily, slept well, and found his rhythm with a bottle and a dummy.

But just seven months later, baby number three was born—and that’s when the cracks began to deepen.

I did what most mothers do: I tried to push through. I added more structure, more rest, more help. My husband stood beside me, steady and kind, while I did everything that was “right.” And yet, the anxiety would not lift. Emotionally, I felt like I was drowning—weighted by self-doubt, sadness, and the quiet whisper that I was somehow failing.

There was a heaviness in everything. Even the smallest tasks felt like mountains. The days became long and grey. And the worst part? The guilt. Why do I feel like this when I have so much to be grateful for?

Spiritually, I wrestled. I had served in ministry, prayed with others, led with faith and fire—and now I could barely lift my head. Shame crept in like fog. Did I open the door to something? Was I being punished? Had I not prayed enough? I slowly slipped into silent legalism—adding invisible boxes to tick, piling pressure onto already-weary shoulders.

All the while, my husband quietly held our home together. But I could see it in his eyes—concern, helplessness, sadness. He was watching his wife disappear into someone unfamiliar. One day, I sat in that suffocating anxiety and finally said to myself, This cannot be normal.

And then—grace arrived.

It came through a friend and neighbour, a GP who had walked her own valley through cancer, depression, and burnout. She saw what I couldn’t: I was depleted. Burned out. And in need of real help.

Admitting that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Asking for medication felt like surrendering everything I had built myself around. I had always chosen the natural route, leaned heavily on faith, and prided myself on inner strength. But I had come to the end of myself—and that, I now know, was the beginning of healing.

I didn’t want to be the angry mom. The tired mom. The mom who disappears under the covers each day. I wanted to be there—truly present for my children. So I reached out. To God. To my husband. To support around me. It took the right combination of medication, therapy, and boundaries to find the light again.

If I’m honest, I longed for a quick fix. A magic switch that would bring back my spark. But this valley didn’t allow shortcuts. The healing has been layered—undoing patterns, facing pain, unlearning expectations I never knew I carried. And in the slow process, I’ve seen God’s kindness meet me in my weakness.

Four years on, I still see my psychologist every second month. When my mom became severely ill in 2022—a story for another day—I needed help again. When I gave birth to my baby girl in 2023 without my mother at my side, I was reminded once more: my brain is an organ. My body is real. Just as I would treat a broken bone, I needed to tend to my nervous system with the same compassion.

We’re not promised a life free of suffering. But I believe we’re offered means of grace—tools and people and moments that help carry us through.

So to the mama reading this…

Medication isn’t a cure-all. It won’t replace prayer, deep healing, or safe community. But for some of us, it’s a handrail when the ground beneath us shakes too hard to stand. And sometimes the bravest thing you can do is ask for help. Not just for you—but for your family, too.

There’s no shame in needing support. Let’s stop quietly crushing mothers under expectations they were never meant to carry. My story won’t look like yours, but maybe today it can be a light to show you that healing is possible.

Nearly four years have passed since I took that first, shaky step toward healing. I’ve grown—not just as a mother, but as a woman, a wife, and a friend. And that, to me, is a quiet kind of courage.

We live in a world that loves to divide—natural vs. medical, faith vs. therapy. But what if there were no sides? What if the truth lies somewhere in the beautiful grey between? And in that middle ground, there’s colour again. There’s freedom.

I had to lay down the stick I used to measure myself with. The silent rules I created. The invisible scoreboard of “doing enough.” And in that surrender, I met the deep, unshakable truth that God’s grace truly is sufficient when I am not.

So please, if you find yourself in a dark or uncertain place, reach out to a professional. Speak to your doctor, your therapist, your trusted community. Get sound, educated guidance. Let people help you carry what you were never meant to bear alone.

Because the grey areas of life—the ones that once felt foggy and uncertain—have become beautiful colours to me. Shades of mercy. Tones of healing. Light that gently returns.

And now, when I see another woman in the fire, I don’t offer perfect words.

I offer my hand.