When I named my son Dhamma (a word of Buddhist origin which means "ultimate truth/reality as it is") I didn't realize just how much truth he was destined to bestow upon me personally.

The moment Dhamma emerged from my body, in the calm of my living room, we locked eyes.

I'll never forget the way it both healed and hurt me. In that very moment, he showed me the light and simultaneously bored holes through my demons; He's the brightest light I've ever know, and I was in the darkest place I'd ever been.

At that time, I was a hollow version of myself. Merely a player in a defensive chess match against his biological father. Every mother I'd ever known had spoken of experiencing immediate and unimaginable love for their children. And yet, while I knew I loved Dhamma with everything I was, all I felt was a desperate need for escape; escape from my situation, my thoughts, and my pain. Hello, numbness...

Where numbness lay, shame followed.

For the longest time, I felt that my inability to feel to my usual capacity was a sign that I was unfit to be a mother. It felt unfair to Dhamma. And I felt robbed of what I always dreamed motherhood might feel like.

It's taken me years to feel comfortable sharing this experience at large. And even longer to share it without feeling immense guilt and shame. But I can only imagine the difference this sort of representation might have had on me when I was in the depths of my struggle.

All I hope now is that my pain, this essay, will become that representation for some mama somewhere. And that she's reading this with streams down her cheeks thinking, "I'm not alone. It's going to be okay."