shades of gray.
what do women and flamingoes have in common? this is my experience "losing my pink" and fumbling through that phase after having my second baby, a.k.a my current stage of life.
By this point, most of us have heard the anecdote about the mother flamingoes, and in case you have not: female flamingoes lose their pink coloring after they give birth due the high demands and the energy exerted when raising children.
The recent, common twist on this story is to obviously compare it to women, and how we lose our figurative pink during our postpartum days as well.
My first postpartum experience felt like a blur, but this second go around has been different. Different birth experience, different kind of baby, different kind of life with a mom who had grown and reshaped herself, who was already a mom before.
What I hadn’t counted on was that this was also now a mother of expectation. I now held certain beliefs about myself, in particular, and who I was as this “mother version” of myself. And I was not prepared for how unkind she would be to me.
It wasn’t an outward or obvious unkindness. I didn’t beat myself up for struggling to nurse. I didn’t dwell on the mistakes I was making as I fumbled through new mom jitters. At least not for long.
No, it was a deep rooted unkindness towards myself. Where I extended branches of grace to those around me, I sheared and cut down every tree of understanding that surrounded me, leaving myself in a deforested field, ravaged and burned, devoid of all compassion.
This is not the first time I have been deeply unkind to myself. I have experienced periods of gray many times in my life, usually a time that is marked heavily by change. I am a creature of habit, consistency, and dependability. I like soft places to land and struggle when the floor underneath me cracks. I used to blame that on my childhood experiences of moving and the uncertainty that came with that.
But I’m an adult now, and I’m trying to take responsibility for my own reactions in life.
But I’m still upset, angry, hurt, and antsy.
The anger has infiltrated every part of my life: my appearance, my career, the state of my house, my finances, my role in every sector of my life, my writing.
And a constant barrage of panicked thoughts about how I am simply not doing or being enough. What lead me to write this post actually was the complete mental break down I had the other night, which happens more often than I’d like to admit, after both of my kids are put to bed.
After I have worked a full day teaching middle schoolers. After cooking dinner immediately after grabbing the kids from daycare. After back to back bath and bed time routines, complete with storytelling and snuggles. After working for 12 hours straight.
I’m exhausted. But am I more exhausted because the weight of expectation, of misguided aspirations?
So my pink is more a champagne these days. There is an undertone there, like I think she’s got some color to her, but it’s nearly imperceptible. And champagne is a pretty color. We are not dull when we lose our pink; we are simply a different shade.
But I enjoy being pink. I like the way I feel when I am pink. I like how it matches my clothes. I like the energy I have when I am pink.
But a ‘but’ to my never ending lists of ‘buts’. I am in a season of champagnes and on a good day, peaches. I think it’s important for me to lean into the ebb and flow of this season; realize that it is okay to be in this season while also doing the things I can, working on the things I can control, to make myself feel as bright as possible. I have been taking a few days after my menty b to think about what has drained me of my color, and what continues to paint me the vibrant hues that I love to live in.
Drains:
Doom scrolling: Instagram and TikTok. Even though I have curated what I thought to be an inspiring and encouraging community, the green little monster of envy sneaks its way in, and the magnetism of over consumption pulls ever harder.
Late nights: I know this about myself. Go the fuck to sleep.
Negative energy and connections: Focusing on the people in my life who speak more positively than they do negatively. My husband always talks about the two types of people in the world: drains and fountains. Be a fountain.
Perfectionism: I have identified as a recovering perfectionist for the past five years or so. Becoming a mother has completely challenged my recovery period, and relapse does happen. We are working on it.
Paints:
Writing: And let me clarify - all of my writing. Instead of focusing on waiting to publish or write something until it is perfect, I publish. I post. I write. Because it is so freeing regardless if anybody else looks at it or likes it. I am a writer at my very core, and that has been true about me as long as my eyes have been brown. It is just as much me as my name, my heritage, my very body and soul.
Screen-free hobbies: Coloring, jewelry making, reading, cooking.
Sunshine: I am a plant. I require daily vitamin D, and without it, I shrivel. Sometimes my brain is my worst enemy and convinces me that we would rather just bed-rot whenever we have a child free moment, but this always leaves me feeling empty.
Connection: Another thing that my Brain, along with her best friend Social Anxiety, like to tell me I don’t need. And Brain and Social Anxiety still win. A lot. I am trying to be better at making plans with friends, refilling my social cup by spending time with people who genuinely make me feel pink again.
So if you see me these days and my hues aren’t quite what you remember, I know it, too. I’m working on it while also accepting that this part of my life is valuable and full and enriching. For now, I am manifesting a pantone-saturated future.