Gemma Hartley

Getting pregnant after postpartum depression may have stolen a lot from me, but it gave me a lot more.

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My first child’s milestones were elaborately marked, photographed, and celebrated with much fanfare... My third child however? Not so much. His first birthday was a much quieter affair — if it could be called an affair at all.

I want and need to save some room for myself, to know that I am worthy of a place in the world without the label of mother.

I was lucky enough to avoid a great deal of body negativity growing up.

I had a lot of well-meaning friends and family searching for the right words to say after my back-to-back miscarriages. So many offered solace by guessing at where my lost babies resided in the ether: taken away to Heaven, perhaps forever, perhaps waiting for a better moment— an unknown, destined time these small souls were meant to break into the world. I accepted these comments silently, because they did nothing to comfort me.

I am sometimes painfully envious of other (usually childless) writers who are doing the very thing I swore I would have done by now — publishing a novel.

I spent the better part of two years a frazzled mess over things that ultimately didn’t matter. My child was still growing up perfectly normal, even when he didn’t follow the straight and narrow path set forth by his pediatrician. I was driving myself over the edge for nothing.

When my son was little, I used to let him win board games a lot.

The money is great, but it is not the best part of becoming a working mom. Having my own career has shifted the power balance of my relationship.