"But Some Have It So Much Worse!"
After “I felt like I was hit by a bus after birthing my child,” the thing I hear most when I conduct interviews is this: “But some have it so much worse!”
It’s unavoidable. If the person is struggling— independently of the event or trauma— there will come a moment when the experience is compared, then downplayed.
In an era that wants us to (rightfully) acknowledge our privileges, it’s tempting to respond to our grief and pain by statements like, “First world problem” or “I did this to myself.” It’s not helping that we do not support new parents adequately nor that mental health care is not compounded in regular postnatal care (if care there even is.)
This response can absolutely be explained by the lack of transparency when it comes to the postpartum period, or comments by friends or family members that tend to brush out (valid) feelings like fear, anxiety, depression, grief, confusion… or simply thinking this is the hardest f*cking thing we’ve ever done in our lives.
Because the birthing person is usually the primary caregiver, especially in the first few weeks or months, the isolation caused by these statements can be crushing. “I should be grateful. I don’t have the right to be [insert a big and valid emotion.]”
Being told that our individual feelings are completely legitimate by someone we trust is the first step. Everything we feel is worth being taken seriously, no doubt about it.
And yet, I know from personal experience that I often felt an emptiness despite the validations of others— yes, even loved ones; yes, even professionals.
I asked myself what I truly meant when I said things like “I should stop complaining: some have it so much worse.” Because the thing is, this statement is a pretty nice defense mechanism. It numbs us from what we fear most, which is having to dive into our own suffering.
We tend to forget that, after the validation and compassion, a second step is necessary: to get face to face with pain and admit (discover?) just how much we don’t hold ourselves in high regard.
What this statement exhibit is profound guilt and shame towards our very own existence: I am not worth it, or at the very least, not as much as my second remote cousin
As my marriage counselor would say, “It’s your inner child who’s speaking, the one who needs to be cuddled, helped, and held as the most precious being in the universe; who wants to be seen and loved.”
Facing this strange yet simple reality is hard. Devolving our pain onto others is easier than simply affirming that not only our suffering is real, but that it’s also our responsibility to make sure that we free ourselves from it.
Saying “I am a worthy human,” is so much scarier than admitting that we’re a piece of shit.
This responsibility to thrive and not only survive is not, of course, the sole responsibility of individuals. Systemic mechanisms need to be put in place in order to protect the rights and safety of postpartum people. But ultimately, no one else but ourselves can take the sacred space that belongs to us (and only us.)
Saying “Others have it so much worse” is not helping them, nor is it helping us.
No matter how many self-help books we’ll read. No matter how many people will tell us that we do, indeed, deserve to be seen, heard, and held.
There comes a time when we need to be our own parents and scoop up this inner child of ours, and rock them to sleep. Promising them we’ll always be there for them, hugging, cuddling, and loving them unconditionally for what they truly are: enough.