I wish you enjoyed your summer: I did not. On the day we were meant to head off on vacation, I found myself in A&E with my spouse, awaiting his urgent yet routine surgery, which necessitated the cancellation of our travel arrangements.
This situation taught me anew about how challenging it is for me to truly feel upset when events spiral downwards. I’m not referring to life-altering crises, but rather the more ordinary yet quietly devastating letdowns that – if we cannot truly process them – will significantly burden us.
While we were meant to be on holiday and weren’t, I kept feeling a pull towards seeking the bright side: “I can arrange another trip”; “At least we have travel insurance”; “This will provide me with writing material.” Yet I never felt uplifted, merely a bit down. Then I confronted the harsh truth that this holiday was genuinely lost: my husband’s surgery involved frequent, painful dressing changes, and there exists a finite timeframe for a delightful getaway on the Belgian coast. Hence, no holiday. Only disappointment and irritation, pain, and concern.
I recognize that worse events could occur; after all, it’s merely a holiday, what a privileged dilemma to face – I understand because I have pondered that perspective too. However, what I required was self-honesty. In moments when I could pause resisting the disappointment and we openly discussed it instead, we seemed to be navigating something together. Rather than feeling despondent and forcing a smile, I permitted myself a spectrum of unwelcome emotions, including but not limited to bitterness, resentment, and rage, which at least felt tangible. Occasionally, it even became feasible to relish our time at home together.
This experience echoed a desire I sometimes observe in my psychotherapy clients, and which I have also experienced myself as a patient in psychoanalysis: wishing therapy could somehow revert our unwanted experiences, akin to pressing “undo”. Yet that arrow solely points in reverse. Confronting the reality that this is unattainable and allowing the sorrow and anger over things not unfolding as we anticipated, rather than resorting to a dishonest form of “reframing,” can support a shift in current: from denial and sadness, to development and opportunity. Given time – which, naturally, is essential – this can transform one’s life.
We perceive depression as feeling miserable – but in my view, it’s a type of numbing of all emotions, a suppression of anger, sadness, disappointment, joy, and life force, along with everything else. The alternative to depression isn’t happiness, but the experience of whatever exists, a form of authentic emotional spontaneity and liberation.
I have often found myself ensnared in the desire to press “undo,” but my toddler is aiding me in moving past it. As a new mother, I was at times inundated by the overwhelming demands of my infant. Not just the feeding – occasionally for over an hour, and then again less than an hour afterward – and not solely the changing, then changing again before you’ve even completed the previous change. These daily invaluable tasks among numerous others – practicality intertwined with care – are comforting yet immensely privileged. Nevertheless, they can also be relentless and exhausting at times. What struck me most – besides the sleep deprivation – were the emotional expectations.
I had assumed my primary responsibility as a mother was to satisfy my baby’s needs. However, I quickly realized that meeting all of my baby’s needs at the exact moment she wanted them was unfeasible. Her hunger appeared insatiable; my milk couldn’t arrive swiftly enough, or it came too quickly. Then it was time for a diaper change – but she despised being changed, wailing as though she were spiraling into a void of despair. Sometimes she seemed comforted by the embraces we provided, while at other moments it felt as if she were unreachable, that nothing I could provide would alleviate her distress.
I soon came to understand that my most critical role as a mother was first to endure, then to assist her in processing the overwhelming emotions elicited by my inability to shield her from all unease. As she developed her ability to consume and digest milk, she was also required to cultivate a capacity to process her feelings and suffering when the milk didn’t arrive, or when she experienced discomfort, or any other tough and disorienting situation – and I had to evolve through her (and my) frustration, anger, despair, hatred, disappointment, hunger. My role was not to ensure everything went smoothly but to help her find meaning in her emotional journey when things didn’t proceed as hoped.
This distinction was critical for her, between being with a caregiver striving to provide only positive feelings and being guided to build her ability to experience a full range of emotions. For me, it was the difference between aspiring to feel a sense of accomplishment from being a perfect mother and instead fostering the capacity to embrace my own imperfections to adequately fulfill my role – and to recognize my daughter’s frustration and anger towards me. It marked the disparity between attempting to stop her tears and understanding when she needed to express them.
Now that we have navigated this journey together, I feel less intensely the urge to hit “undo” and rewrite our narrative into one where everything unfolds perfectly. I find solace in my growing understanding that this is unattainable, and to recognize that, when I’m preoccupied with trying to rebook a vacation, what I actually need is to allow myself to cry.
Moya Sarner is an NHS psychotherapist and the author of When I Grow Up – Conversations With Adults in Search of Adulthood
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