Tag: life

The Bittersweetness Of Motherhood

Caryn Clegg
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I guess it’s the bittersweetness of it all.

The part where your heart is so full it could burst, and yet at the same time, there’s this tiny tug – a whisper of grief for all the moments slipping by too quickly.

I’ll never forget the nerves that came with that first phone call to our adoption agency. I had no idea that pressing “call” would be the beginning of the most life-changing chapter of our lives. I was shaky and hopeful, terrified and ready. All of it. All at once.

Most mornings during that season, you’d find me outside with a mug of coffee clasped between two anxious hands, chatting to my husband about how I didn’t think we’d make it. How I didn’t think we’d be “good enough” to be adoptive parents.

“I’ve got depression.”
“I’ve got anxiety.”
“There are other couples who are richer, more qualified.”

I told myself every story I could think of to soften the blow just in case it didn’t happen. Just in case we weren’t chosen. Just in case we failed the screening.

And that screening? It’s no joke. Medicals. Counseling. Police checks. Mental health reports. Character references. It felt like putting our entire lives under a microscope. And if you’ve ever struggled with mental health, you know how vulnerable it feels to put that down in writing – to hand over your diagnosis like a résumé and hope someone still believes you’re capable of being a good mom.

But every step we completed, every drive out to Wellington to sit in that little office with our wonderful social worker, brought us closer. Closer to her – though we didn’t know who she was yet.

I still remember the butterflies. The nervous laughter in the car. The songs playing on Spotify that now feel sacred because they take me right back to that moment. That sacred in-between when we weren’t quite parents yet, but our hearts had already made room.

And then, we met her.

It’s strange how a moment can feel like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once. I remember the smell of her blanket. The way she looked at me for ages, taking my face in, before she fell asleep peacefully on my chest – still her favourite spot to nap.

She’s asleep on me as I write this. Her little breath warm against my skin. It’s a moment I wish I could bottle up and keep forever. Because I already know – this part won’t last.

That’s the ache no one tells you about. The ache of watching them grow. Of celebrating their milestones while quietly grieving the versions of them you’ll never meet again. The newborn who needed you every second. The baby learning to sit. The toddler with the infectious giggle. They all live in your memory, and every new stage is beautiful and hard, magical and fleeting.

Motherhood is joy laced with longing. It’s knowing that the “firsts” come with “lasts.” It’s messy, and sacred, and a little bit heart-wrenching in the best way.

So I sit here, breathing her in, letting the moment stretch just a little longer.

And I guess that’s the bittersweetness of it all.

Drowning in Gratitude and Exhaustion

Caryn Clegg

“I’m so exhausted, I need help,” I said to my mom—my voice cracking before the sentence even finished. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix. The kind that wraps around your bones, that makes your muscles ache, your soul heavy, and your brain foggy. The kind of tired that feels like you’re walking through life wearing a weighted blanket you can’t take off.

This season? It’s beautiful. It’s sacred.
But it’s also breaking me in places I didn’t know could break.

I fought so hard for this little girl of mine. I prayed for her. I dreamed of her. I ached for her before I even knew her. And now that she’s here.. my daughter, my miracle, I’m still fighting. But now, some days, it feels like I’m fighting for myself.

The naps, the feeds, the physio appointments, the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry – oh the endless piles of laundry, the playtime, the walks, the singing, the rocking, the comforting – it’s holy work. It’s magical. And it’s utterly exhausting.

I had no idea motherhood would feel like this.
And I definitely didn’t know that having a premature baby – born two and a half months early – would come with all the extra layers. The physio. The exercises. The medical check-ins. The constant wondering if I’m doing enough, if I’m doing it “right.” Add adoption into the mix, and I overthink it all ten times more. Is she securely attached? Is this normal? Will this cause her more trauma? Will she feel safe, seen, secure?

Motherhood, for me right now, feels like I’m drowning.
And the only one who could maybe save me is my husband…
But he’s drowning too.

And that’s the part no one really talks about.
The way the world keeps spinning, family lives abroad, friends are busy, and suddenly it’s just the two of you. No village in sight.
Just two people, clinging to each other, tired and overstimulated, trying their best not to unravel.

I told my mom, “I think I’ll only be okay again when she starts school.”
And then I exhaled, paused.. because I don’t want to wish this time away. The Lord knows, I don’t want to wish it away.
I just… need help.

My mom’s getting older. Cancer took its toll. She helps when she can – and I’m so grateful – but it’s not the way I remember the aunties and grannies stepping in when I was growing up.
And even saying that feels like betrayal.
Like I’m ungrateful. But I’m not. I’m just tired. And I miss what I never had.

I don’t have the answers.
But I understand now why women lean on nannies, daycares, au pairs – whatever it takes. Because truly, I don’t know how we were ever expected to be everything to everyone – mothers, caregivers, providers, nurturers – all at once, all the time.

I heard someone say once,
“They say it takes a village – but then they shame us for what our village looks like.”
Especially when our village comes in the form of paid help.
But what else are we meant to do when there’s no one else around?

We’re all just trying to survive.
We’re all just trying our best.

So here’s what I do know:
We need patience with ourselves.
Buckets of grace.
We need to know it’s okay if they had frozen nuggets again, if Ms. Rachel was on way more than we’d like to admit, if we sobbed in the kitchen while breathing deeply to keep ourselves from snapping.

It’s okay.
It really is.

And if no one has told you today –
You’re doing beautifully.
Not perfectly. Not always calmly. But beautifully.

I don’t have the answers.
But I’m here with you.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.