The Woman in the Mirror

(looking at mirror)

I was all light- sun-kissed skin and late-night laughter. I’d dance in the mirror- music blaring, hips swaying, hair wild and free.

I’d catch my reflection. Eyes full of fire and a heart full of dreams. I wanted to write a book. Fall in love or become an empire building business woman, a courageous world-traveler with humanities in my heart.

I believed in fate. In timing. In myself. People called me radiant and I believed them. This girl felt unstoppable. Unshakable. Untouchable.

(to audience)

Until I wasn’t. I’m Atara. A wife and now a mama of 4, currently ages 8, 7, 5 and 2. I’m also an integrative mental health clinician and am passionate about restoring mamas mental health through metabolic repair. This is a piece of my story.

The entrance into motherhood felt like a thrust. A propulsive force that landed a first baby in my arms. It felt, everything had changed but also nothing at the same time. After a brief but scary NICU stay, my husband and I drove home wide eyed but hopeful.

Time marched forward however, the relentlessness of sleepless nights, cyclical feeding and changing needs (repeat 3x) and isolation from other adult humans left a growing disconnection with the women looking back at me in the mirror. The fatigue settled into my bones. The kind of tired that makes you forget what day it is or cry because someone used the last clean fork.

(to mirror)

“Who was I now? What exactly did I want out of life? I didn’t have the answers anymore. Old clothes didn’t fit and neither did old dreams.”

(back to audience)

As the days continued that initial thrust seemed to slow and time warped. Days began to blur together and the answers to those questions were always fuzzy; similar to that face that starred back at me now in the mirror.

Emptiness and exhaustion were my ever present companions. Heavy eyes, full boobs and flabby tummy. The weight of motherhood felt incredibly heavy.

Sometimes I’d catch my reflection. Always accidentally and always jarring. I’d pause.

(to mirror)

Where did I go? That girl who once radiated now stood with milk-stained pajamas, swaying a fussy baby, eyes now dull. Who teaches you to be a mother? How do I know if I’m doing this “right”? Shouldn’t I know how this works?

(audience)

That was the voice of shame by the way, another companion who constantly loomed over my shoulder. As Dr. Curt Thompson points out in his book The Soul of Shame, shame stems from a doubt and shame also leads to isolation. I was steeped in doubt regarding my worthiness to be a mother.

A place shame often was loudest was in my inability to make decisions or ask for help. I had always been such an effective individual. Now my thoughts felt idiotic.

(to mirror)

Should I shower or eat? Do I have enough time to start the dishes before the baby is awake again? Can I poop before he starts fussing?

I always hoped that woman staring back had something to say. But she didn’t. Only silence. And growing, gnawing emptiness.

(audience)

One day Ben, my husband asked, hey do you want to go to my parents to watch the game? And before I even realize what’s happening, my chest tightens and hands clench. A sudden surge of heat rises.

“Why is he asking that again? It will collide with the baby’s nap time, and what if I can’t get him to sleep there, then he’ll get overtired and have neurological damage, and then he’ll be fussy and I’ll be irritated, ugh I’m already irritated. It will be so loud there it’ll wake him up but I don’t want to miss out on connecting with other adults, I miss people but also I miss having a minute to myself, oh my gosh this is so overwhelming, why do I feel like there is never an easy decision?

Why can’t I enjoy anything anymore?

UHH You’re silly and dumb and terribly inadequate here. What is wrong with you?

(Sigh)

The shame spiral.

It was loud, despairing, ruthless and persistent. My mind was a cluttered room, stacked to the ceiling with thoughts that I couldn’t seem to find a path through. As the space around me started closing in, my heart started to pound and pound and pound and my skin burned like it was a hot skillet filled with guilt and repulsiveness bubbling up.

My body had to MOVE filled with fury, it yelled GET OUT, be anywhere but here!

But I swallow that fire that makes you want to throw a plate or scream into a pillow or just run. I don’t run. I look at myself in the mirror and agree to go because that’s what a good mom should do.

The building pressure of this internal dialogue began to erupt. I felt out of control. It was impossible to keep it inside anymore. It would be spewed onto my unsuspecting husband.

“Why are you even asking me that question? I’m exhausted and it’s pretty obvious I need help!” He’d stand absorbing the blows of my anxiety and shame as they attempted to push him farther from me. “You don’t understand anything about what this is like! Don’t say you understand, you don’t! Why are you even talking to me?” Ah, relief. Thank God I don’t have to hold that inside anymore.

What I longed for was connection, support and understanding. They moved further from me as I would watch hurt wash over his face and he’d concede. Shame got what it wanted, control. I was alone sitting there in the darkness with it.

Another baby came, 18 months after my first. My deepest shame was that sometimes my children were the victims of my rage. Now I had 2 small humans reliant on me daily. A newborn and an 18 month old, the ride I couldn’t seem to get off of intensified. Sharper turns and dips that felt as if they’d slam my body and psyche into despair.

That woman in the mirror? It was as if she didn’t even exist anymore. Vacant, just an outline. She disappeared day by day until what was left felt more like a ghost.

“Please God, give me some rest today. I’m desperate to let my mind be quiet.” With weighted eyes, I’d watch the clock; counting down until naps.

(to mirror)

“How do I even get a toddler to sleep with another baby who refuses to be put down? Quickly, that’s how. This is like trying to defuse a ticking time bomb. Just…don’t… explode… today please! But what if that toddler doesn’t cooperate? Please go to sleep. You should be sleeping. You need sleep, I need sleep! If you don’t, I won’t get any time to myself, why won’t you just do what I need you to, I can’t make it another day like this. JUST GO TO SLEEP!”

(audience)

I’d finally burst violently after 15 minutes that felt like hours. The silence was deafening and then the tears. Tears everywhere. My little boy shocked and trembling, tears from the baby startled by the yelling and my own tears of shame and fear.

(to mirror)

You are an awful mother. What is wrong with you? Is this what it’s supposed to be like? Does every mother feel this way? As I looked at myself I thought, I don’t know you. And worse, I don’t like you…

(pause)

Breastfeeding my 2nd born at 3am while scrolling social media I was smacked in the face as I read for the first time the term, postpartum rage. I instantly felt understood and also betrayed. No one had ever even hinted that this was a common postpartum experience. No doctor had asked, no inventory had inquired about these symptoms, no friend or peer or elder had mentioned that the postpartum could look like this.

Hell, I worked in mental health as a clinician and still was clueless that postpartum rage and anxiety even existed. Sure, I was asked if I was sad or if I enjoyed the same activities I did before baby, Oh Please is that even possible? or if I wanted to hurt myself or my baby. No? Ok great, you’re good, see you later! I left with a shrug. No red flags on the questionnaire…I guess…I’m fine…?

(pause)

18 months after my 2nd baby, came my 3rd. Yep 3, 3 and under. I was 28 days postpartum after this 3rd birth and on a sticky September afternoon I was throwing a 4th birthday party for my oldest. My dad had asked me a few days before on the phone, are you sure about this?

(To the mirror)

I’m fine, it’s fine, everything is fine. This is what mother’s do, right? Sacrifice their sanity and bodies to create happy, core memories for their children. Just keep going. Until when? I don’t really know…

So I did keep going, literally up and down this flight of 48 stairs in the 90 degree heat to bring the birthday supplies down to the park. Until tears burst out of me with all the resentment, irritation, and overwhelming fatigue I’d been holding in for weeks. I collapsed on the stairs in exhaustion with the thought, why can’t I get it together? I know now that was a question of shame.

What I really needed- what I was desperate for- was connection. Connection to myself as I stumbled across the scared and messy threshold from maiden to mother.

Connection to other mamas in the trenches sleep-deprived and soul-weary just like me.

Connection to the wisdom of mentors- women with compassionate hearts and understanding eyes..

Connection to a tribe who could catch me in their arms without judgement.

Connection to the earth under my feet and sky above.

To the Creator, whispering “you are still beloved. You still have purpose.”

Instead of a question soaked in shame, I began to ask a new one: how do I connect with what I need right now?

A wise mentor once told me, clinging to the “couldas, wouldas and shouldas” steals the present from us. So this is my commitment now- to open that door so many mothers quietly stand behind.

To reach through the gap with authenticity and vulnerability. To say out loud: you are not alone in your depression or anxiety or rage, shame or any other profound emotion thrust into your reality with the title of mother. You are not broken. You are becoming. And with this curiosity we can ask: Who is this new creation staring back at us in the mirror?

Because I realized- I didn’t want to reject her anymore. She wasn’t dead. She was waiting. And I had to find a way to bring her back to life.

Three years later—by baby #4—I had learned how to connect.

Not just in theory, but in practice. In my body. In my cells. I discovered that my body, especially after pregnancy, was starving for minerals - those tiny, powerful elements that stabilize hormones and calm the wild swings of rage and anxiety.

I learned that minerals produce light—literally. That spark in your brain, the pulse between one thought and the next, it needs minerals to fire. The crucial four that helped restore my serenity were: magnesium, potassium, sodium, and calcium.

They brought my nervous system back online, nourished my mitochondria so my body could make energy again, and helped my neurotransmitters speak in the right language, at the right time. I also learned how to regulate my emotions in real-time. I found tools that worked for me.

Techniques like Brainspotting—where I could use my field of vision to locate the tension in my body and gently release it. And slowly, moment by moment, I reconnected with her— (look to mirror) the woman in the mirror.

Her eyes sparkled again. Not with naiveté, but with wisdom. I became centered—not in survival, but in peace, purpose, and passion. And I silenced that liar. The voice of shame that once told me I wasn’t worthy of motherhood. I buried her. She wasn’t truth. I am no longer the maiden.

I am a mother— reborn. Wild. Grounded. Radiant. And when I look in the mirror now… I smile. Because I know her. And I love her.

~Atara