My Guilt and Me - A Work In Progress

I remember being pregnant with my first.  The excitement about finally meeting him.  The terror of what I would do without an operating manual to help me through.  The acceptance that the next few years of my life would be spent craving more sleep than I would ever get.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the heavy weight of guilt that comes along with every child.  Literally from day one.  Did we get the right car seat?  Will he be safe?  Am I holding him right?  Why won’t he feed?  Why isn’t he sleeping?  What am I doing wrong?

And although in those early days, confidence grows with every nappy change, and every mini-battle won, the guilt only seems to grow in-step.  When you leave them at nursery, because, lord knows, you need to get back to work for your own sanity.  When you send them into school on the day that they might not be fully 100% and could really use a duvet day.  When you pop them in front of a screen so you can attend to your inbox.

It’s a natural part of being a normal, modern parent.  But in our household, that guilt grew into a monster overnight.  

It was a Thursday night. We had gone out to dinner with friends and had a completely normal evening. I have no memory of what happened next. But here’s what I’ve been told.

My husband woke to the sound of me seizing.  He jammed a hand in my mouth to try to stop me choking and I bit him, so hard he bled all over the pillow.  He called the paramedics in panic, and when they arrived, they took me straight into hospital and I was admitted.

My kids saw the whole thing.  My daughter, who was four at the time, had been sleeping between my husband and I that night, so witnessed everything.  My son, who was eight, came downstairs to see his father, terrified, his sister in the middle of everything and his mummy, seizing and covered in blood.

When I woke up in the hospital and my husband told me it had been a stroke, I laughed out loud.  It probably wasn’t the most appropriate response.  But it was just absurd.  A nurse confirmed what he said, but it still didn’t feel real.  

This all happened during the pandemic.  So, family visits were outlawed.  The kids couldn’t come and sit on my bed, have a cuddle and know that I was still Mummy. I was in hospital for a week, convinced this was all crazy, only old people have strokes, and, meantime, my kids were too young to talk on the phone or to really process what was happening.

For a long time, I didn’t realise the impact this all had on them. And in all honesty, I could beat myself up about that – there’s plenty for us mothers to flog ourselves with! But there was quite a lot going on in those early days, just trying to manage everything that was happening inside my own head.

It took a month or two for the cracks to really appear in our family. My son began to worry constantly, checking on me and quietly slipping into a caretaker role. My daughter was bereft. She cried at school, and another mother texted to say she seemed sad. I remember reading the message and thinking, oh God, this is real. If I went out, she became terrified that she wouldn’t see me again, that I might just disappear.

We tried hard to keep their routines the same.  We’d read the parenting books that said consistency was key! So - same nanny, same school, same structure. Just with less access to me. Because back then I was asleep most of the time. The house became quieter; I couldn’t cope with noise or chaos. Music stopped. Play stopped. The kids learned to listen to their own noise and keep it in check.  They were, I’ll say it again, four and eight.  

Throughout everything, we’ve always been very open with our children. They lived it with me in real-time. I couldn’t pretend nothing had happened, because while they were little, they weren’t blind. They saw how I was.  I would explain my fatigue to them or say that I had a headache, and they didn’t ask why it happened. It just happened. And all I could tell them was: yeah, it sucks, and we move on to the next day.

It also took its toll on my husband. I saw my kind, calm husband punch a wall one day because the door kept knocking.  The pressure on him was immense.  He watched me break.  He became the primary caregiver to all of us overnight.  He had to find his way in a whole new family situation – one he didn’t choose.  And I know there are a lot of feelings going on there. Exhaustion, resentment, grief, worry.  The fear is real – he is terrified this will all happen again one night. Things are fundamentally different for us and our intimacy changed. We are partners first. Everything else has to be secondary.

Through all of this, the guilt was a constant hum – a little bit like middle-age tinnitus. Guilt that people I barely knew were helping. Guilt that my family added to my stress instead of easing it. Guilt that my stroke affected everyone around me.

Guilt also stopped me resting properly. I would push through exhaustion to take

my kids to things that mattered to them. I would schedule therapy and medical appointments around my kids’ and my husband’s schedules. I put myself last and I still do. 

And, in a vicious circle, the fatigue was the thing that took the greatest toll on my abilities as a mother. When I’m tired, nothing functions. I get terrible migraines, and everything falls apart. The medical advice is to nurture myself with yoga and meditation and plenty of quiet time.  Sounds dreamy! But it’s not really compatible with family life.  And family has become my priority now.  

And I know there are things we’ll never do as a family – there will be no Disney World vacation. That kind of bedlam is impossible for me. I’ve had to cut back massively on activities. I couldn’t do birthday parties. Chaos is not, as it turns out, great medicine for brain injury. So, our nanny helped host my son’s party a month after my stroke - while I stayed in bed.

But I don’t feel guilty about any of this because boundaries are necessary for my sanity. As parents in this modern world of privilege, we make too big a deal of small things.  My kids are loved, they know we are there for them, they have everything they need, and I never miss any of the really important things.

Here’s what I know, deep down, when the guilt isn’t trying to knock me off course… I am a better mother now. I’m more patient, more present, more honest. I notice when the kids are ‘off’. And I have time to listen to what’s affecting them. I never pretend I’m fine when I’m not. I let them see my limits. 

And now I know that my children just see me as Mummy. That constant person who keeps everything ticking along. They say things don’t work as well when I’m not around. 

They are learning to be resilient. They know that life can be hard. That you get knocked down and you get back up. That failure comes in many forms.

The hardest part is that there simply aren’t enough minutes or energy in the day. What I need most is help, but what I can’t say out loud is how exhausted I am from trying every day and never quite succeeding. I live with a constant fear of failing my family while trying to recover and failing myself in the process of taking care of them.

But I too have become resilient. This isn’t a tragic story. It’s just a different path. And the guilt is most definitely still there. I’ve just learned how to live with it. And maybe that’s all motherhood really is.