The instant I read the words, I regretted picking up my BlackBerry that one last time before going to bed. A well-meaning relative of mine had read my recent post about my health and my leaky gut problem and told me: “This is not the time to volunteer for things.” She intended to point out that there would be plenty of time later in life for me to pursue my interests when I didn’t have as many health challenges to face and when I wasn’t in such a busy time of motherhood with a kindergartener and opinionated non-verbal toddler.

I get her point. Really, I do. The problem is that her note assumes that volunteering is something that detracts from my well-being. Sure, it might have seemed that way in the post she read. I’d rushed to finish it and get it up rather than wait until who knows when I’d get a free moment to sit down again. I did, I realize, sound a little overwhelmed. And yes, balance is something I’m working on.

But I don’t regret my choices, and I don’t want them restricted. That wouldn’t help. If I weren’t busy with something that felt meaningful, that contributed to my priorities, that gave me joy, or that fueled me with passion, I would be, simply put, depressed. Staying busy and engaged in something bigger than myself is a necessity for me to stay mentally healthy without medication.

And staying off medication is something I feel is a physical necessity as well; I simply don’t think my body can handle being on anti-depressants. They made an amazing difference for two years, and then again for a year while I sought treatment for hyperthyroidism (Graves’ Disease).

But they are drugs. Even if I weren’t a true believer in the healing power of nutrition and energy work, my system has shown me it simply cannot handle anything artificial. As much as SSRIs helped, I’m also pretty convinced that they contributed to the mess I’m in now — a much smaller role than 30 years of eating gluten, probably, but a role nonetheless.

No amount of saying no to volunteer work is going to undo all the damage that was caused by decades of eating food my body couldn’t handle, to say nothing of mild but young substance abuse. What will help me heal is continuing to eat real food, pursuing what makes me happy, and cultivating a mindfulness practice. It takes a lot more time and energy than popping a pill, but I really don’t see that I have a choice if I have my long-term health in mind.

Until I got this late-night email, I was, I admit, stewing a little about the lack of time to do everything I cared about. But rather than push me to step aside, as was its intention, the note inspired me to remember why I have chosen what I’ve chosen to do and to be grateful that I have the opportunity to do it.

The fundraiser I was working on was a great success, both in money raised and in positive momentum and a spirit of community, which was probably even more valuable to this project about which I care deeply. Even as I wished for more hours in the day to proofread the program and organize the volunteer schedule, I remembered that I proposed this event because I believe in the cause and that I offered to head it up because it’s something I knew I could do well. I knew it could be a great thing, and I wanted to create that.

So I carried that purpose with me into the event and sincerely enjoyed it. I lapped up the kudos with nary a self-critical remark or “if only we could have” lament. It was just good, plain and simple. We can debrief and learn from it, sure, but the thing I am most proud of is just enjoying it.

And then, when I came home after being gone at the school 11 a.m.-5 p.m. and launched right back into domestic goddess mode, I took on that role without resentment. Sure, there was a smidge of “really?” in my brain when my husband said he was super tired, but rather than go to a place of bitterness, I just chalked it up to a confirmation that the job I usually do of managing house and home is, indeed, a tiring one!

I wanted the laundry and dishes dealt with, so I did them.

I wanted celery and other veggies for the next day and to not cook that night or ask my tired husband to rally, so I went out to the grocery store after picking up take-out.

I wanted to do yoga before eating in peace and quiet, so I waited until after the family meal and bedtime to get on my mat and then eat my own safe food.

Somehow, that email sparked — or stoked — a fire. What started as angry turned cozy and glowing. The email inspired me, in part, to take the Mother’s Self-Renewal workshop to explore issues of balance and honoring our many selves. That first session then gave me the sense that I am both not alone in my dilemmas about time and also that my process is one to honor. It is part of my mothering to model not perfection but an embracing of personal growth and inquiry.

So thank you, dear relative, even if noting you wish you’d gotten advice from your elders still doesn’t convince me that you weren’t being more judgmental than supportive. Regardless of their intent, your words helped me see through the messiness of internal conflict and to look toward something varied and beautiful.

The first time I heard of the Weston A. Price Foundation was the day after Thanksgiving 2003. My face was full of acne, my belly was full of gas, mind was muddled, and I hadn’t had a period in almost three months. Not exactly the picture of health.

But I was still offended when the nutritionist I spoke to suggested that my vegetarianism — near veganism — might have contributed to my gut and skin problems, my fertility, and my depression. How could this woman call herself a nutritionist? Meat was so bad, I thought.

Still, her five-month pregnant belly and her regained health after years of chronic fatigue syndrome convinced me that her wisdom might be valid.

Although I wouldn’t actually purchase Sally Fallon’s Nourishing Traditions cookbook for another three years, I did start to eat eggs and full-fat dairy, and I stopped eating soy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I ovulated two weeks later and began having regular cycles from then on. Soon after, I started eating meat again, and my health improved.

A traditional diet, I believe was key to my healing, including from the the thyroid disorder I was diagnosed with just after that meeting with the nutritionist. Now, eight years later, I have two children and a much better sense of health and wellness.

I’m so grateful to have learned about this approach, and it’s wonderful to see so many people writing about this way of eating, including Kelly the Kitchen Kop and Jenny at Nourished Kitchen. One of the other top Real Food bloggers is Kimberly Hartke of Hartke Is Online! Kimberly also serves as the publicist for the Weston A. Price Foundation, and she’ll be speaking on September 15 to the Arlington/Alexandria chapter of Holistic Moms Network. Her talk, “A Respect for Tradition: How Looking Back Can Show the Way to Wellness” will address some of the following questions:

• How can the wisdom of traditional diets address modern-day health concerns?

• What connections between health and nutrition did pioneering dentist Weston A. Price find when he traveled the world in the 1920s, and how can we benefit from what he learned?

• What is so great about raw milk?

• How come obesity rates started rising when low-fat diets came on the scene?

• What are healthy fats and why do we (and our children, especially) need them in our diets?

The presentation will be the focus of the group’s September meeting, which is 7-9 p.m. at 716 S. Glebe Road, Arlington, Virginia on Thursday, September 15, 2011. For more details, visit the Holistic Moms blog.

Yesterday I went to a yoga class for the first time since the baby was born five months ago. And I cried.

It was a big deal to get out the door. For weeks, nay, months, I had been looking up schedules at all the local studios to see when they might have a class that might possibly work for me to attend. Between erratic sleep and unpredictable eating times and needs (both mine and the baby’s) and plenty of other things that need to happen on the weekend, yoga never made the cut.

Evenings were busy enough already, and weekdays I have no baby childcare. You’d think I could have gotten to a mommy and me class, but with all the driving I already subject the girl to for her brother’s preschool, I’d kind of just rather let my little one sleep than take her out again to try to keep her happy while I half-do some half-moons.

I was, to put it mildly, out of practice.

That’s part of the reason I chose to go to a class with Teresa (not her real name) as the teacher. When I was pregnant, I’d come a handful of times to Teresa’s gentle class, where once I was one of only two students. She was a mom, a casual teacher, an understanding spirit. We’d emailed a few times, and I’d shared my birth story with her. The studio was where I’d done some prenatal yoga classes, which were better-attended but still small and friendly.

To return to yoga with Teresa at this neighborhood studio felt safe and familiar. How many people serious yogis are going to come out to a yoga I class on a Saturday morning? I thought. As I registered online, I imagined Teresa checking the roster and smiling in anticipation of seeing me. I envisioned some chatting as I set up my mat, maybe even joking about how it was on that very surface that my water had broken when I went up into bridge pose the morning my daughter was born.

But, as usual, I left kind of late, trying to fit in just one more thing since the baby was napping. I arrived an eyelash after start time, approaching the door just as Teresa was about to lock it. “Sorry, I’ve got to get started,” she clipped. It wasn’t rude, but it wasn’t the homecoming I expected.

Nor was the sight of the room. It was packed. Teresa announced that they’d have to make a fourth row. I could have turned around and left, but I had paid my $20 and actually left my house. Alone. Going back to a whiny four-year-old didn’t sound fun, even though I felt kind of shamed.

“It’s good to give yourself a few extra minutes to work out these logistics,” Teresa said to the room in a lighthearted tone that suggested,”I’m not trying to make you feel like shit, Jessica, but this happens more than I’d like, and it’s really not respectful of everyone’s time.”

I dumped my bag and jacket into the cluttered coat room (where I was used to seeing bare shelves) and quickly claimed the spot that was being created for me at the front of the room. “I did the best I could,” I muttered. Teresa made some “it’s okay” kind of comment.

Then I think she got it. As I was rolling out my mat, she asked, “Have you been back yet?” My answer was an unquestionable “No.”

I was already starting to cry, but there was no going back now. I couldn’t leave the class without totally disrupting it. We were all in our places. I looked around for tissue and saw only a roll of toilet paper lying on its side next to the iPod. My sleeve would have to do for my snot.

As Teresa began talking us through our opening centering, I closed my eyes and let the tears roll. The people next to me probably knew something was up, but I wasn’t sobbing audibly. Teresa, I’m sure, saw.

Thankfully, the class was not physically challenging, with no partner work or moving to the wall. I simply staked out my little spot on my mat like everyone else on theirs and tried to be just one of the masses. Eventually the well was dry, but, I never fully lost my edge. When Teresa came around to make an adjustment to my pigeon pose and ask me if I was okay, all I could say after a few beats of silence was, “I’m here.” She cooed, “I’m glad you’re here” in response. I didn’t really believe it.

Of course I also couldn’t blame her for wanting to start on time. Goodness knows, I could never tolerate lateness gracefully (and goodness knows even better that I would never have it in me to be an open-hearted yoga teacher). Still, I was disappointed and hardened. I tried to avoid Teresa after class by leaving right away, but that just put me by the doors as she opened them, which gave her the chance to say things like, “I’m glad you came” and “We’ll see you again real soon, okay?” I put my jacket on facing the wall and said only, “I”m sorry I was late.”

Then I left and sobbed some more. The idea of walking into my home a bigger wreck than I was when I’d left — ostensibly to get enlightened — was not appealing. Who wants to greet her husband and visiting mother-in-law with post-yoga tears? What kind of thank you is that for watching my two children for two hours? If this is how I look after yoga, the rest of the day (week? month? all of parenthood?) looks pretty grim.

Luckily, my sister was able to clear a little time to talk me down. I poured out my tale of woe to her over the phone as I sat in front of the house in my car, getting chilled with the engine off. A neighbor tried to get his dog to pee on the sidewalk, but I let my voice keep cracking. She said all the right things about me, the teacher, my husband. She understood how overdue it was to take care of my needs, how simple and yet earth-shattering for me it was to get out the door, and how benign yet deflating it was for a teacher to regret my timing instead of celebrate my return.

When I walked in the house, I knew that if breakfast was not ready, I would be able to calmly ask LJ to make it like I’d asked. I knew that if the baby was awake and hungry, I’d explain that I needed to eat first. If asked about my red eyes, I believed I’d avoid self-flagellation and just say that it was a big deal to get to my first yoga class in over five months, and sometimes big deals come with big reactions.

As it happened, there was breakfast not only made for me but positioned into a funny face like I do for my son. My husband’s inquiry about my demeanor was gentle and appeased with “I just got really emotional.” And he even asked later if I wanted to talk about it some more (my dream response!)

Maybe we fought again the next day. Maybe I started to wallow in self-pity later that weekend. But at least I got through The First Yoga Class and its immediate aftermath.

Sometimes maybe we all do need to just cry it out.

***

Have you ever found yourself in tears in a place where you really didn’t expect to lose it? How did you rebound?

This time of year is rough for me, with personal history of a family death and my birthday always linked and the chilly grey skies no help. Sometimes it doesn’t hit as hard, but this year, after all that snow and maybe due to the hormones of pregnancy, I am battling what I’d called situational depression. I know it won’t last forever, but it can still shoot out short, virulent doses of debilitation and self-doubt, resulting in my wanting to crawl under a rock.

While I manage to fulfill societal roles – volunteer group organizer, volunteer newsletter editor, tutor, workshop participant – I am no good for regular social mingling. It’s hard. You might think it would help, and it sometimes seem to distract for a short while, but if other people are happy and I am struggling just not to be in tears, it’s really a challenge to be in social situations. So, while I lick my wounds, I just kind of disappear from just plain communicating with friends and from anything that doesn’t serve some outside purpose.

I know I used to feel like this most of the time, and I know what medication helped, but I no longer consider pharmaceuticals an option for me. They are too hard on my liver and my body in general, and as long as I stick to eating the right foods for my body (no gluten, dairy, corn or soy, and limit the yeast, egg white, and even natural sugar, too!), I don’t think I should ever get so far gone that I would need meds.

But I also have to do other things.

I have to consider exercise a non-negotiable mental health prescription.

I need to spend time on my yoga mat, preferably with a CD or DVD or some kind of groovy music so I can get into my body and out of my head. Classes are great if I can fit them in without feeling guilty about the money (or mad about the time it takes to sign up and get there when I should just be doing it more at home).

Last week I got out my SAD light, and that seemed to help a lot.

I need to keep taking Vitamin D and cod liver oil, and probiotics (especially if I overindulge on sugar of any kind). I just started liquid chlorophyll to help with my iron. Maybe that will help.

And I need to write.

This post originally appeared on DC Metro Moms on August 31, 2009

Birthdays — the key part is the “happy”

I’d like to see, though, if I can successfully pull off something meaningful with the playdate– like planting seeds — without cranking up the stress meter. It would be send our friends home with the promise of new life in early spring.

Maybe someday we’ll go to weekend parties where we invite kids and both sets of parents. But as long as I’m not working, that seems like too much. I think I’d rather do a special activity, like a hike. It would be nice to come up with something that we do every year, but that hasn’t happened yet. Heck, this last year the major thing on my mind was that we were going to have his third birthday be the last day he nursed. Can’t really repeat that!

Although I’m sometimes jealous of folks who have grandparents and aunts & uncles in town for the special day, I don’t expect my extended family to get to town for his birthday. They live far away and aren’t in the greatest of health, and there are better times throughout the year to enjoy their company.

I just want him to feel like a birthday is a happy and simple time. That’s a feeling I don’t think I’ll ever have about my own birthday.

This is a photo my son took of me two days ago at the end of a sled run in our yard. He will be three in three weeks.

I saw a former student of mine in the grocery store yesterday. I had no makeup or jewelry on. Just a little boy as my sole accessory. My student from back in the day said, “Wow, you look so young!”

I told him I was turning 36 tomorrow (that’s today, if you’re following me), and that his comment was very much appreciated. He seemed to like me saying he looked grown up.

Today an 80-year-old man hit my car in a parking lot while I was trying to adjust a borrowed car seat since my husband took ours to work. It was just a tap, but my son was sitting in the driver’s seat and I was already in tears over a missed appointment (which I’ll still have to pay for. And it was supposed to make me feel better!) My face was already tear-stained and flushed as pink as my shirt (put on not because pink flatters me but in an attempt not to be grumpy about my birthday), and I’m afraid I was none-too-gracious with the old man, who could not be bothered to carry an insurance card (or to apologize since he didn’t see any damage).

How is it that my toddler, currently prone to fits of drama over the most innocuous-seeming, random details, managed to stay calm through my sobs, only asking in the calmest of voices, “Why are you upset?”