I am only ankle deep in the water, but I close my eyes all the same, breathing in the familiar sensations of the beach, our home. I’m not weightless in the water, but I feel lighter, as if I removed the weight of overwhelm and left it on the shore for someone else to carry for a while.

My children didn’t ask for this. They didn’t ask for life or for a mother who is unhappy. I don’t want my depression to be the part of the story they remember or long to change.

I didn’t know how to communicate it, and I guess nobody in my world knew the right questions to ask. I guess I thought the constant hum of worry over everything and nothing in the back of my mind was just...motherhood.

I looked at my baby with spaghetti sauce all over his face - smiling, innocent - and I wanted to fall in a hole. How did I get here? He was only one year old and had encountered more rage, more shouting than anyone should have to tolerate for a year, much less the only year they'd been alive. He didn't deserve this. None of us did. I was tired of screaming at my husband, him screaming back. Tired of yelling at my perfect cherub during sleepless nights. Tired of feeling so ashamed, so alone, so broken.