Today was particularly challenging. My anxiety levels were elevated, and the whispers of my depression filled my mind with negativity. I felt as though I was standing in shadows that I reserved solely for myself. My irritability made it hard to be around me, and this awareness only added to my emotional burden. By the time the afternoon rolled around, exhaustion and sadness had settled in.
When I picked up my oldest son from a birthday gathering, he dashed off to the nearby park to join his siblings and their other parent. I stayed back to prepare dinner, wishing I could have shared a hug with him before he left, but the words never came. While I was feeling low, he was radiating joy.
As he sprinted away from the porch, I longed to rush after him, scoop him up, and apologize for my grumpiness throughout the day. I wanted to convey my sorrow over my sadness, but I knew he didn’t perceive my struggles. At just about eight years old, he has never witnessed me cry. From our past talks, I understand that he associates sadness with tears.
My youngest children, who are five, have never seen me cry either. Until recently, I could recount the few times I had shed tears—just four instances since my oldest was born. Two of those moments occurred on the days my children entered the world, one during a particularly emotional Olympic event, and the last in my kitchen when my younger children were a year old.
During that time, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom to my twins and felt utterly lost. I doubted my effectiveness in every role—mother, partner, friend. Most importantly, I neglected my own mental health. I felt so emotionally drained that my body finally released tears as a form of relief.
Each crying episode felt like a miracle—a brief escape—yet they never lasted long. Just acknowledging those emotions seemed to make them vanish. As I tapped into that vulnerable part of myself, I would quickly shut it down, often with a drink. Unbeknownst to me, my addiction was hindering the healing I desperately needed. I thought if I could just cry, I could let my emotions out in a healthy way.
I would take long, hot showers, hoping the water would wash away my sadness. I cranked up music to drown out my thoughts, pushing my body through rigorous workouts in a desperate attempt to break through my emotional barriers. I yearned to cry but found myself unable to.
I watched friends break down in tears during various moments—be it joy or sadness—and I couldn’t help but wonder why I couldn’t do the same. Crying was something I wanted to embrace healthily, yet it felt out of reach. I had numerous reasons to cry—depression, PTSD, anxiety, and the weight of a spiraling addiction—but I never did. My perceived strength was actually a sign of my brokenness.
One day, my son remarked, “Mom, you’re never sad because you never cry.” Oh, if only he knew how often I felt sorrow. I attempted to explain that just because I didn’t show sadness in a way he could recognize, it didn’t mean I wasn’t experiencing it. They are too young to delve into the complexities of mental illness, but as they grow, I aim to show them the different faces of depression and anxiety, breaking down the stigma surrounding mental health.
I want them to understand that crying over not getting a juice box is a different kind of sadness than what I experience. I also want to demonstrate that I can cry. Since committing to sobriety, I have felt more raw and open to emotions than I thought possible. It has transformed me in unexpected ways.
Recently, just months shy of a year sober, a wave of deep sadness surged within me. Without any specific trigger, I felt tears streaming down my cheeks for the first time in years. All the emotional walls I had built up crumbled, allowing a flood of healing to pour out. I have cried more this week than in the last 15 years, including my first tearful moment in therapy. While it feels overwhelming, it’s a healthier way to cope compared to my previous methods. I haven’t cried in front of my children yet, but I look forward to it. My new ability to embrace vulnerability reassures me that I am not broken.
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In summary, my journey through mental health struggles, addiction, and newfound sobriety has opened me up to emotions I previously suppressed. I hope to eventually share this vulnerability with my children, helping them understand that it’s okay to feel and express sadness.