Give It a Name

Nearly 15 years ago, my second child was born premature. Two years prior, my oldest had also made his arrival 2 weeks early, so when I arrived at the hospital 18 days before Malia’s due date, the thought of complications due to a premature birth never crossed my mind. However, the moment Malia was placed on my chest I could tell her breathing was stagnant and most definitely NOT normal. She was promptly taken to the special care unit where she was hooked up to machines and tended to for immature lung capacity. Within a couple days, her condition worsened, and she was taken into Boston’s Children Hospital to be intubated. I was devastated but you would never know it by the positivity I exuded in defense of the fear that circulated through me – I had put myself into survival mode. I forbid anyone from taking pictures of her during those horrible first weeks. True, she was pale, unhealthy and covered in tubes but my reasoning behind keeping the paparazzi at bay had nothing to do with vanity. No, I just did not want the terror I felt to be documented. I did not want to look back on the first few days of her life and acknowledge the state we were all in. I did not want to face the reality of what that looked like, and I did not want to capture anything that I was working so hard to bury deep inside me. I was sure the visuals would reveal the truth, which was a far cry from the positivity I desperately needed at that moment in my life.

The photos of this time were just the beginning of what I forbid myself to face. I also rebuked all the suggestions of Angel and camera monitors for when she returned home. I had been fixated on her hospital monitors for weeks, spent countless hours willing them to not sound and lived in constant fear of what it would mean if one of them did. That terror needed to stay in the hospital. There was no place for it in our home. I was determined to only bring happiness and relief with us when we left. I just needed to survive, I put all that fear and desperation in willing Malia to improve.

At a month old, Malia left the hospital and joined us at home as a very healthy and strong baby girl. However joyful that homecoming was, it marked the start of my own slippery slope towards post traumatic fog. It took years to overcome those feelings that came bubbling to the surface after Malia’s safe arrival home. I found it hard to find the words to describe or understand the emotions I was feeling. However, my physician knew exactly what it was and promptly diagnosed me with postpartum depression. The label may seem insignificant to some, but to me, it allowed me to acknowledge those feelings as real.

This past year, I undoubtedly shifted back into survival mode. Early in the pandemic, I stopped watching the news and scrolled past the depressing COVID statistics that managed to find their way into my daily newsfeed. I refused to read comments on controversial social media posts in fear the venom in the word exchange would seep in and take hold of my pursuit for blissful ignorance. I avoided conversations with those I knew held a difference of opinion from mine and removed myself from dining table debates. But mostly, I stopped looking forward to things on the calendar. Suddenly, nothing was set in stone until it happened. I wore the coat of deflective armor daily, letting nothing in that could potentially tip the emotional scale in the wrong direction.

As any good positivity junkie, I clung to all the niche terms: “pivot”, “reflect, reset, refocus”, “give yourself grace” and so on. Desperately, trying to implement each term into my day with hope it would carry me to the other side of normalcy. These mindset practices outwardly appeared to work in the height of the social distancing restrictions of quarantine. However, over the past few months I have found them to be short lived at best and unachievable at worst.

What was wrong with me?

While others were rejoicing in the ability to hug their relatives and venture out of their homes as vaccines became readily available, I found myself keeping my emotions in check. Holding my breath for the next big disappointing drop. This outlook was so unlike my typical glass-half-full approach to life. After a year of people and things being taken away, I kept myself guarded by maintaining a low expectation of what was to come, drifting along – numb to emotions as a form of survival and in constant search of a way to return to a place of mindful positivity. Unsure of when or how I would ever get past the trauma of the last year, I cautiously treaded along waiting for the “all clear” to move forward.

Initially, I thought I was the only one struggling with this. I assumed I had overused my good vibe mojo in 2020, leaving a depleted tank of positivity and motivation for 2021. After a few commiserating bitch sessions with friends, my newfound procrastinating, Debbie-downer personality appeared to be a trending affliction among many of my peers.

It was around this time when a New York Times article by Adam Grant graced my newsfeed and drew me in with the similarities in his writing to my own post pandemic trials. Mr. Grant, however, has a name for it – “languishing” (There’s a Name for the Blah You’re Feeling: It’s Called Languishing, New York Times),.

Languishing, as defined by Grant is “a sense of stagnation and emptiness. It feels as if you’re muddling through your days, looking at life through a foggy windshield”. BINGO!

Upon reading the definition of languishing, I was brought back to 2006 and the emotions I had fought through and beat after Malia’s traumatic birth. The diagnosis of what my doctor referred to as postpartum and the effects it had on my psyche in 2006 had an uncanny similarity to the post pandemic languishing described in the New York Times article of 2021.

So, I had a name for it… now what?

I found my way out of my bout of post-partum through a consistent exercise routine. Not only did the endorphins help with my mental state, but I found our local gym offered reliable childcare for 2 hours a day while I exercised. I suddenly had 2 uninterrupted hours to focus on me, reset my mood and talk with other moms who were doing the same. It was everything I needed.

Adam Grant, of the NYT suggests a way to counteract the state of languishing is to find a “flow”. He describes flow as “the elusive state of absorption in a meaningful challenge or a momentary bond where the sense of time, place and self-melts away”. Although I did not put a name to it 15 years ago, this course of action is exactly how I was able to work through that post-partum, post-traumatic mental junk after Malia’s birth. It is also how I slowly and intentionally began working my way through the post-pandemic mud.

My approach to flow:

1. I wake up 1 hour before anyone else in my house. The sense of undisturbed reflection sets my mind for the day ahead before my beautiful distractions wake up.
2. I set 3 doable tasks a day. These tasks are only ones I know I will be able to check off at the end of the day because I have complete control over them. They can be as simple as “call the dog groomer” or “create 5 social media posts for client x”. It all depends on how much time I feasibly have in my day without interruptions.
3. I fit 20+ minutes of physical movement into my day. Most of the time, this is accomplished during the early morning “quiet” hour. However, if I know I have a walk planned with a friend on a particular day, I may have an extra cup of coffee and just enjoy the silence.
4. I go to bed early. If I am going to get up early, going to bed early is essential. I try to be in bed by 9:30 but that really depends on the time the kids go to bed. Like my early morning hour, I like 1 hour of no-kids-allowed television watching to decompress from the day. The closer I make it to 9:30, the easier it is to wake up.
5. I plan 2 hours of uninterrupted work a day. With this odd year of remote and hybrid learning, I almost always have one of my four children at home. I typically can find 2 hours when the house is quiet, and I can focus on the tasks I have set for the day. As soon as the door closes behind my high schoolers, I plug in the headphones and attack that list.

These tactics are basic and achievable. Regardless of the simplicity of the objective I set for myself, I still have days when I am challenged to be consistent with them. Those days tend to also be when everything falls apart (including me). That undoing is a good strong kick in the butt of why setting objectives and working towards them are so vitally important. Most importantly, these tasks give me something to focus on besides my state of mind. While ensuring I am checking boxes and making time for me, hours go by and I am no longer over analyzing situations.

And before I know it…

The Governor of Massachusetts declares all COVID restrictions will be lifted from Massachusetts as of May 29, 2021 – less than 2 weeks away! We have a date! Sure, there had been milestones and benchmarks set in the past, but this brought a deep, collective exhale that was felt across the Commonwealth.

The news of this development came across my newsfeed by a tearful friend and local yoga studio owner as she invited our community back to practice as we once had – together. The rawness of her video invitation brought on overwhelming emotions of joy for my sweet friends and all the others who have faced surmounting hardship during the pandemic. Family, small business owners, friends, acquaintances, clients… everyone has been affected and have fought their own battles along the way. Her emotional response brought all that sadness from deep down inside me to the surface and made me a blubbering mess of relief for the upcoming change in guidelines. The social media posts that followed continued on the theme of new beginnings; festivals, parades, firework displays … it was all back on. With those announcements came a feeling of life returning. A light switch flipped from off to on. For the first time in a long time, I exhaled. I allowed the anticipation of normal-life-as-we-knew-it expectations to seep in and watched as the fog began to lift and allowed myself to feel the shift towards positivity and light.

Whether it was postpartum, seasonal affective disorder, PMS or languishing, giving these inflictions a name has always been my first step to recovery. Accepting that these feelings are there and that it is okay to feel them is the turning point on my journey. Coming up with a day-to-day plan to set my focus and distract myself from the infliction itself carries me until I locate the other side. 

If you have found yourself discouraged, unmotivated, and frustrated with the lack of enthusiasm as we venture out of life in a pandemic, you now have a name for it. You are languishing. Now that you know (your welcome), set some of your own objectives to practice. Check off the boxes on those miniscule tasks and acknowledge the accomplishment you have made. The smallest responsibilities can feel like mountains in this state of languishing. It is important to recognize this to be true and give credit where credit is due.

Heck, reward yourself for completing that to do list. Set time aside to relax, binge watch your favorite show and do not forget that big, fat ice cream sundae. Your languishing ass deserves it.  We all deserve it… it has been a hell of a ride.