This morning my doctor called me. She told me that without medical care I would have bled to death. Her words have been on repeat in my head all day. I texted my husband this sentence and he said “Of course, 100 years ago you would have died.” Sobering. So let’s back up. How did I let my health get to the point of an emergency surgery last week? I am a mom. A mom who put everyone before herself, but in doing so I had become so unhealthy that I was no longer fully present for my kids. I was no longer present for myself.

When I shared I had an emergency hysterectomy and blood transfusion on my Facebook pages a common theme began to emerge. The theme was a collective nod of the head and understanding that as mothers we do not put ourselves first. We don’t take care of ourselves.

I probably have not felt 100% healthy since this photo was taken 5 years ago. I pushed my body to its breaking point and it broke.

I cringe when people call me “super mom” or when they tell me they feel guilty for not doing all of our posts on Pinterest. Because it is not reality. When I was posting this on Instagram I was rushing home to put my feet up because I was having uterine hemorrhaging. But this isn’t a post about blaming social media. I love the community of parents and educators (and advocates for children) that I have created on Facebook. This is a post about what happened when I ignored all advice and didn’t take care of myself. This is a post about what happened when I tried to do it all.

As I gripped my sink at 3am Thursday morning and saw a face in the mirror that was completely white I knew I was in trouble, and yet I suffered a few more hours in order to get my kids to school and to my parents’ house. And that is how I ended up in the Emergency Room with blood soaking my hospital gown and the woman entering the room with a mop looking at the blood splattered ground and exclaiming “Oh. My. God.” And that’s when I gave up. I saw the relief in my doctor’s eyes when she was about to start to convince me to get a hysterectomy and I said, “I give up. It’s ok. You don’t have to convince me. I’m done.”

In that moment I realized giving up was not failure. Giving up was strength.

In the hours that would pass I would lose an additional two pints of blood during the surgery and my blood pressure would drop to 78/32. As I lay in my hospital bed lacking the energy to even lift my arm a sense of relief and clarity poured over me.

I’m calling it quits on the perfection of motherhood.

I give up

worrying if people think I am a great mom. I am a great mom. I am flawed. I am tired. I mess up. But I love my kids with all my heart.

I give up

trying to make my house look like a magazine. Our couches are 12 years old and ugly, but perfect for jumping on. No one in our home has real bed frames and half my walls have 2 year old artwork covering them. Eventually I will transform it, but for now I give up.

I give up

comparing my body to other mothers. I give up feeling badly when others publicly celebrate fitting into their high school jeans. I will get and stay healthy for me and me alone.

And as I say I give up I am free. I am strong. I am me.

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