METAMORPHOSIS

Photography By Daria Shevtsova | Written by Jannica Cuaresma

COVER STORY

There wasn’t much else I could do but surrender to my grief. Away from my husband’s eyes and ears, I cried. After I assured my family and friends that everything was just fine, I cried. Even when my son looked right at me and smiled, I cried... So every day, I wrote a letter to him, asking him to believe that I really did try to be a good mother and to forgive me for not being one.

Every year, I purchase a new journal, and I embellish the first page with a motto or mantra that I would strive for the rest of that year. I color code the contents of my planner, making each page look like a linear rainbow. My personal and work Google Calendar are organized in the same way, and I schedule a reminder alarm for all upcoming events. I strategically commute and run errands based on traffic and efficacy. Saturdays are for pursuing peace of mind outdoors, but only after I finish cleaning. Sundays are for finishing what wasn’t finished the week before, generating a to-do list for the week, and then watching new episodes of my favorite shows. I do all of this, among other things, so that every day has a purpose, and that purpose is fulfilled every day.

In non-sugar coated words, I am the Type A, anal-retentive, gold personality, north-west working personality, straight arrow type of person.

While being this way has made me a bit coarse and risk-averse, even fun-averse, I’ve always been satisfied, because being this way has ensured a relatively comfortable and successful life. It helped me maintain a high level of productivity and it most certainly helped me achieve my goals.

Cue 2017. A year after I married my husband, three years after I paid off the only car that I bought brand new, four years after I completed the Emerging Leaders Program and joined the Instructional Leadership Team at my school, six years after I got my Master’s degree in secondary English education, and eight years after I moved to the Big Island of Hawai’i with a single suitcase and started my career as an educator, I became a mother.

...and came undone.

My first son was born with jaundice. His pediatrician assured me that it would go away soon, because breastmilk has all of the antibodies that a baby needs. Unfortunately, my milk came in late and breastfeeding wasn’t natural to me at all. So, my son underwent phototherapy, while the lactation consultant tutored me on promoting milk flow and positioning my son’s lips for maximum sucking. After a few days, we were discharged from the hospital, but my son’s jaundice lingered for weeks.

My son also lost quite a bit of weight, because I didn’t produce enough milk. With him sucking for sustenance while squirming with discontent, and with me watching him miserable at my breasts, it seemed like breastfeeding was a punishment for the both of us. Incapable of doing what I am, supposedly, biologically programmed to do, I felt broken. What kind of a mother was I, if I couldn’t nurture my own child?

Eventually, I integrated formula, and my son thrived with the blended nutrition. He gained weight at a steady pace. Yet, I was still drowning in overwhelming guilt for not being able to sustain my son on my own. I thought that if I just try harder, I could work up to breastfeeding exclusively. So, I pumped in between feeds all day and all night. I gorged myself with lactation tea and cookies. I joined support groups online. I connected with the local NEST via text messages. But, I never did produce enough milk for my son. After eight months, I weaned my son off to release both him and myself from the chains of ineffective breastfeeding.

But I wasn’t free from torment just yet, as I also couldn’t properly soothe my son. I couldn’t read him like other moms said I should be able to. I couldn’t tell which cry was due to hunger, a dirty diaper, or tiredness. So he cried and cried and cried. Every stretch of sound that he bellowed was a reprimand from the universe for overestimating my ability, character, and mental fortitude - for having a child that I couldn’t adequately care for. He cried so much, I kept our lanai doors closed so that the neighbors wouldn’t complain and get us evicted. He cried so much, I couldn’t think of anything else. I couldn’t feel anything else. Neither background music, Doterra lavender essential oil, baby massages, warm baths, rockers, swaddles, nor leaving my scent around his crib eased him. I couldn’t use the bathroom or eat without being burdened with the guilt of letting him suffer in my absence. And so I didn’t use the bathroom or eat most times, not until my husband came home from work at night, when the darkness has shrouded the sky to let me know that I have, yet again, failed as a mother.

There were also bodily surprises that I know now to be common but devastated me at the time. One evening, there was pain that throbbed in my lower back and belly, and it soon worsened exponentially that I felt like I was giving birth again. My husband brought me to the hospital, where the doctor determined that I had an infection and then prescribed a medication for me. My hair fell out in chunks and my scalp went through a drought, rejecting any treatment I put on it. And - the salt on the wound - I gained more weight postpartum than I did while pregnant (not including the weight of the baby or placenta).

The worst part was that I wasn’t working. Being in
my classroom, learning with one hundred of my
kids, was what gave my life meaning.

In addition, everything else that brought sense into my life were pretty much nonexistent. Journaling, color-coding, and fulfilling plans, gone. Saturday chores and adventures, definitely gone. Sunday preparations...I didn’t even know which day was which. The worst part was that I wasn’t working. Being in my classroom, learning with one hundred of my kids, was what gave my life meaning. Teaching was my moral purpose. So outside of the field, I felt useless.

MOTHE

R

ISSUE

There wasn’t much else I could do but surrender to my grief. Away from my husband’s eyes and ears, I cried. After I assured my family and friends that everything was just fine, I cried. Even when my son looked right at me and smiled, I cried. I hated myself. I hated that I wasn’t good at any motherly thing, not even one. I hated that I couldn’t do what everybody else could so easily. I hated that I wasn’t only failing myself, that I was also failing my son. I hated the thought that he may grow up traumatized or ill because of my flaws, my failures. So every day, I wrote a letter to him, asking him to believe that I really did try to be a good mother and to forgive me for not being one.

Eventually, my obgyn referred me to a therapist. In all honesty, I can’t remember much of what we discussed. But I do remember one particular advice - that I take pictures. So I did, though I wondered why in the world I was paying such a high insurance premium to receive such a simple advice. Lo and behold, it made all the difference.

"And finally I saw that I may not have

been the perfect mother, but my son loved me all the same."

In time, with every picture that I scrutinized, my mind opened. Nay. My heart opened. I saw that my son fitted his clothes nicely, which made me realize that he was growing just fine. I saw that, on my chest, with his forehead tucked under my chin, he slept perfectly in peace. I saw that his dark, almond-shaped eyes looked at me with a tenderness that I never knew before. In fact, the very first picture of him smiling, which my husband snapped, was of him looking at me. And I finally saw that I may not have been the perfect mother, but my son loved me all the same.

From there, my perspective changed. I no longer thought that I was incapable of feeding my son. Instead, I was delighted at the fact that there were so many resources available to help me do so. I no longer thought that I couldn’t soothe my son. Instead, I understood that his happy place was right next to me. I no longer thought that my body was imploding. Instead, I learned that it was trying to teach me acceptance. I no longer thought that my life was caving in. Instead, I believed that there was a right time for everything, and that there will once again be time for my own personal goals in future. Also, I allowed the universe to help me reconfigure my life so that there was room for pure joy, true quality time, and meaning that is beyond the day-to-day accomplishments. Most importantly, I believed that since my son loves all of me, despite my shortcomings, then I should also love me, and, hopefully, he will grow up loving all of his self, too.

It’s been three years since my first son was born. In that time, while I continued to overcome my depression with positive rumination and, of course, pictures, my family and I have moved into a house of our own, where we can ride the swells of each day and night without fear of consequence. We’ve also grown, with a two-month baby boy who surprises himself with his own farts and who my first son calls, “my baby!” Our house isn’t the cleanest, but it is filled with laughter, and our family is grounded in love.

Through the kitchen window, I can see our ponderosa lemon tree adorned with countless bulbs of unripe lemon and frosted with tiny white and purple flowers. Almost every day, I’d see butterflies frolic around it. Those vibrant butterflies remind me of an important life lesson:

During metamorphosis, caterpillars essentially destroy themselves before they mature. Once enveloped in their cocoon, they release enzymes that reduce their body into a slush of nutrients and reveal some previously hidden body parts. In due course, these leftovers undergo rapid cell division and evolve into what we know as butterflies.

Whenever we reach a dark

place in our minds and hearts, when we even think
for a second that we’re inadequate, we need to
remember that we are just like caterpillars that
evolve into butterflies.

Whenever we reach a dark place in our minds and hearts, when we even think for a second that we’re inadequate, we need to remember that we are just like caterpillars that evolve into butterflies - deep within us, we always had what it takes to be what we want to be, what we ought to be, and what we need to be. It’s just a matter of allowing our minds, bodies, and hearts to go through metamorphosis.