First, let me say how thankful I am to all of those who reached out to me to share their kind words stemming from my blog yesterday. It is to all of you to whom I am the most thankful, for you have supported me through dark times and still stand by my side today!
Today, Meghan Wells shares her story. I have known Meghan since she was a student of mine at Penn State, and as proud as I was of her back then, I am bursting with love and pride of the woman who has grown into the incredible mom, sister, daughter, and friend she is today. Meghan has enlightened my life probably more than she actually knows and she has pushed me to become a better human. I am so happy to share her story with you today!
Others describe me as bubbly, gregarious, and positive. I laugh and love easily. My nickname was Giggles for a significant part of my young life, and some people still call me that.
I never thought I’d be depressed. In my senior year of college, I stayed in bed, skipping commitments, and tanking classes. I didn’t call it depression. I called it burnout.
Years later, I was stressed at work. I activated my therapy benefits and sobbed through the intake. I worked with college students, spoke highly of mental health resources, and felt ashamed to need them. After a few sessions, I felt better. I ended my therapeutic relationship.
Flash forward, and I saw myself grow more anxious. I felt the spiral more often. I turned to yoga, and it helped. I went in and out of therapy, worried, always, about what others would think.
In 2018, I had my son and was over the moon. During my maternity leave, my job was eliminated and I was laid off. The sudden feelings of being disposable overwhelmed me. I felt trapped, inadequate, and afraid to take my son anywhere. I went to my doctor for an SSRI.
Meds barely helped. I limped through the first year of my son’s life feeling severed from my purpose. I established a secure attachment with my son, and my husband was always there so I down-played my sadness. I told myself I didn’t deserve to be sad or depressed.
In 2020, I was pregnant with my daughter when the shelter in place order was issued. I relished the time at home with my little family, and tried to avoid my terrified and anxious thoughts.
When my little girl was born, my husband lost his job due to Covid. We were afraid. My dependency on my husband grew. Everything felt beyond me. I withdrew, even in my own little house, surrounded by my perfect little family. I stayed in bed. I wasn’t okay. I ignored myself.
In the new year, I unsuccessfully sought help. No one took our insurance. After months of intakes that led nowhere, I found a therapist. Before my first session, my partner got a new job and our insurance changed. I wasn’t eligible to be seen anymore, and the search started over.
I posted on my Facebook, desperate. A friend connected me to a therapist. I got a psychiatrist. I was diligent with them…and nothing changed. After six months, my therapist recommended intensive outpatient (IOP) services for more acute care. When I asked my psychiatrist, her recommendation was partial hospitalization (PHP). I cried so hard I couldn’t form the words to tell my husband. With shame, I told my nuclear family. How did I get here?
Somehow, I accepted the recommendation. My son’s daycare took my daughter, and increased my son to full time, no questions asked. My husband loved me harder. So I went.
PHP was such a gift. For more than two weeks, I reported in-person to participate in individual and group therapies. I was seen by a nurse, and my psychiatrist regularly. They adjusted my meds and made changes without weeks between appointments. I worked on understanding myself more than I ever have. It was heavy. It was hard. It was, and remains, a privilege.
My PHP was women-based, and each of us cycled through the weeks on our own timeline. We had very different stories, and yet so much in common. We hurt and healed together. I left on my last day with a flurry of hugs and a grateful heart. I knew my work had just begun.
The next day, my son turned three. I basked in the joy of loving my family and my closest friends. Some knew, some didn’t. That night, I decided to share my story on social media, and I was completely wrapped up in love.
The following week, I started intensive outpatient. None of the women in my IOP group were from my PHP, but the connections and commonalities were just as natural. It was truly remarkable. Each day, our therapist shared skills and lessons. Each day, I felt lighter. Each day, I came back to myself. I “graduated” the day before Thanksgiving, and still actively practice my lessons. I’m imperfect, and I’m committed to my self awareness and mental wellness.
Transitions are hard. For me, being a smart and accomplished professional was my calling card. For so long, my life’s purpose was tethered to my career. Without one, I was lost. I forgot that loving my babies and my husband were the most valuable things I could do. I used a lot of language like, “I’m just a mom,” or “I’m just starting my own business.” The women around me in PHP and IOP made me drop the “just.”
What I am accomplishing daily is enough.
I never knew anyone who had been through programs like PHP and IOP. I talk openly about my journeys, and hosted a Q&A on my instagram about what my experiences were like for me. I vowed to normalize them. In doing so, I learned that I actually knew a lot of people who went through similar experiences. They started telling their stories too.
My hope is that no one in my life will deny themselves help because the resources are foreign and terrifying. I was so disappointed with myself for so long. I spent so much time in deep sadness. Now, my pain means something. My purpose is becoming clear again. It shifted, but it’s still rooted in truth telling, vulnerability, and education, just as it always was. What a circle.
