Seventy-eight days. That’s 1,872 hours I had spent alongside my daughter, Olivia, since the day she was born. We survived so much together.

COVID. Milk supply issues. Slow weight gain (and loss). Latch challenges. Late-night emergency calls to the pediatrician. Restless nights. Inconsolable crying. Blow outs. You name it.

We were inseparable.

So when it came time to do just that—separate—and reclaim any sense of independence, I was struck with this sinkhole feeling in my chest.

Let’s be clear. On the surface, this “separation” was a simple 2-hour-or-so lunch with a girlfriend. After 78 days of sleep deprivation and my only socialization being around my baby, you’d think this was long overdue. I should feel joyous. Relieved even.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the depth of feelings that spiraled the moment I closed the car door. I kissed my little girl goodbye. Correction. I corrected it to a “see you later” because the thought of saying goodbye felt too permanent.

The moment the door closed, my body tensed. I sat forward, gripped the steering wheel, and I held back a well of tears and feeling of a rock in my throat.

In my mini mental breakdown, my inner critic took over…

“You’re abandoning her. You’re depriving her. Do you really need this? You should go back in the house and cancel. It’s too soon.”

“You’re abandoning her. You’re depriving her. Do you really need this? You should go back in the house and cancel. It’s too soon.”

I was overwhelmed with guilt for taking time for myself—away from her—and for any excitement I felt about re-integrating with society.

“What if you miss something? A milestone? A laugh?” my inner critic interrogated.

Even the thought of having an alcoholic drink after three years felt shameful.

“Pump and dump? PFT! Do you really think it’s OK to be wasteful with that precious breastmilk your daughter depends on? She deserves your absolute best. Is this really you being at your best?”

Inner critics can be the absolute worst. I could’ve caved to the overwhelming pressure.

Why is it that, as mothers, we’re burdened with so much shame and guilt—all of the time? Where does this judgmental, shaming voice come from? (More on that in another post.)

Thankfully, a much kinder, supportive intuitive voice—let’s call her my inner wise woman—stepped in. She has a way about doing that in the moments when I need her most.

On the outside—outside of my brain, that is—it’s been silent this whole time, which while it felt like an eternity, probably lasted the sum of two minutes.

Then, she gave me he courage to say aloud:

“I am bigger than these feelings of shame and guilt. I know I will look back on this and be glad I did it. It’s important to replenish my cup to be the best version of myself for me and her—and that doesn’t mean that I’m taking away from her. I’m not depriving her of anything.”

It was tough to say these dark feelings aloud. But I’ll tell you, once I did, I stripped them of their power.

I continued on, “You are not depriving her. That’s not true. What is true is she is surrounded by love. She has all of the nourishment that she needs, and she will love me just as much when I get back. Nothing is sacrificed by doing this. This is OK. You are not selfish for doing this.”

No one talks about these confusing, mixed feelings that you’ll have the first time you need to leave your child. No one prepares you for it.

Here’s what I wish someone told me and what I want to tell YOU…

Mama, you are worthy of rest. You’re worthy of joy. You’re worthy of fun. You can fill your cup, trust in others, and be a good mother. You were already a good mother.

Mama, you are worthy of rest. You’re worthy of joy. You’re worthy of fun. You can fill your cup, trust in others, and be a good mother. You were already a good mother.

The first time you leave her will be HARD. You will feel tinges of guilt and shame, maybe even regret, before you do the thing. But once you do the thing, you will realize that this is a healthy balance for everyone.

You are not the only person who loves her and can care for her. She has a support system of people all around her that can step in. It does not all have to fall on you.

She is safe. She is loved. She is cared for. She knows in her bones that her mom has a deep, unconditional love for her. She will not love you less for going to care for yourself. You are worthy of her. You are worthy of joy. You are worthy of fun.

You can do this. You will do this. You’ve got this. You’re not alone in how you’re feeling. It’s normal.

Now take a deep breath, mama. Be kind to yourself. Be gentle. Be tender. Be forgiving. Accept your feelings. Acknowledge them, but do not cower to them. You can be with them and still do this thing because you both need this. Breathe.