Raising a Child in Uncertain Times: Modern Motherhood in a Pandemic

By Ashleigh Catibog-Abraham

They say it takes a village to raise a child, but what happens when you aren’t physically able to be within six feet of your village? 

I became pregnant with my first child during a pandemic. This was something that I never thought would happen in my lifetime, yet it ultimately became an integral piece of my story. As I grew my baby, my anxiety about raising a child during uncertain times did too.

Being from Ontario, the restrictions were the harshest. I felt like I was a hostage, completely at the mercy of fluctuating lockdown periods. By the time I gave birth in August 2021, nothing had really changed since the onset of our provincial mandates.

I really felt the weight of the pandemic in that first week when we were brought in and out of the hospital due to my baby’s premature birth. She had slight jaundice and had to be treated with light therapy, but not before the nurse had to perform a nasal swab test on her. It was the most excruciating part of the experience.

Once we were home and my baby girl was in the clear, the reality of my new responsibilities set in. Unfortunately, my partner’s employment had also been restricted during much of the pandemic and at the time of our baby’s birth he could not afford to take any time off, nor did he have the capability to work from home like so many other parents. Due to social distancing, my family was unable to help me care for the baby.

At that point, I quickly became acquainted with the throes of postpartum depression and anxiety. I didn’t think much of it at the beginning; the cocktail of surging hormones and sleep deprivation were justified causes for the tumultuous feelings that I was experiencing. Typically, they’re called ‘baby blues’.

As weeks bled into months, something still didn’t feel quite right. With motherhood, you as a person quickly get demoted to the bottom of the totem pole and I couldn’t dissect the emotions as I would have liked.

The soft glow from scrolling through Instagram during late-night feedings became both a solace and a torment; pesky algorithms had tailored my Explore page to display fellow mothers with perfectly filtered photos and cleverly edited videos in an attempt to find me a community. It did quite the opposite. In the sea of well-developing babies, I found my inadequacy in constant comparison.

I always found a way to worry. I always found a reason to blame myself.

These Instagram moms made it all look so easy and I had to wonder, what was I doing wrong? My baby wouldn’t sleep, my baby would cry round the clock, and my baby would need to feed every hour. I searched tirelessly for answers in the polished profiles. Nothing made sense; nothing worked.

In my struggle, maintaining composure was mandatory. When my partner came home from work each day, I forbid myself from telling him anything. He was the one who had to go to work. All I had to do was stay home and take care of the baby. Was it me who was making it harder than it had to be?

In between the mothering duties, I had to uphold the household. I was never off the clock. There was no signing out at the end of the day. There was no end of the day.

I took the lying to new lengths when my friends and family asked me how things were going; I was too afraid to tell them the truth. Too afraid to admit that raising a child made me feel like I was drowning. To admit that I hated breastfeeding or that I developed debilitating insomnia that caused severe gaps in my memory. I was completely overwhelmed, but I forced myself to smile and tell them how great everything was.

Guilt started to creep in and introduce itself to my frayed mental state. I had a beautiful, healthy baby. So why wasn’t I happier? Why did I feel the way I did? I should have been grateful to have her, but I dreaded the time I had to be alone with her because ultimately, I felt like I was a failure, that I would make the wrong choice that would forever scar her. She was perfect, and I didn’t want that to change.

I had reached my breaking point when my partner found me in our bedroom, crying in the dark. Nothing specific that day had brought on the tears. Rather, it was the culmination of all the external forces that resulted in my emotions bubbling to the surface and finally erupting.

I unloaded everything to my partner, and he said exactly what I needed to hear: ‘I can help you. What do you need?’

Mothers are forced to be resilient, to be the glue that holds a family together. Showing any signs of weakness can invite unwarranted opinions about your ability to take care of your family. We are expected to show up for our babies and our partners, but we often forget that we need to show up for ourselves too. We must remember that as our babies grow and learn in a new environment, we as mothers are doing the same.

The hardest thing is asking for help, but it is also the most gracious thing you can do for yourself.