This is a guest post by Christine LaRocque. I’ve invited a couple of kindreds to post this week while my family gears up for and makes a local move. I hope you’ll click over to Christine’s site, Coffees & Commutes, and peruse much more of her work there. Her writing always soothes me and is wonderful, trust-nourishing stuff.

As I showered this morning, readying myself for the busy workday ahead, and then drove the long commute to the office, I thought about what I should write for this guest post. Kristin asked that I write about something in relation to help, and though I jumped at the chance to share my words here, I was feeling somewhat uninspired by the theme. 


So I asked myself why? As I come through a difficult season of change and struggle that is marked by an intense path of inward focus, but also the kindness and generosity of spirit of others who have helped me along the way, why would I find writing about help so uninspiring?

And I realized it’s because help is tremendously undervalued in our society. We think of asking for help as a weakness, admittance that we can’t do it, a reason to be judged for our perceived failures. We forget that help is about asking for what is needed, for getting support to help us along, when things may be just a little harder than usual.

Motherhood can be a difficult and lonely place. We spend so much time giving of ourselves, to our children, our partners, our employer, friends and family that we often forget that strength can come simply from asking for help. We are a generation of achievers raised to believe that if we only work hard enough; set aside our hearts for reason; push ahead, do more, we can have it all.

At the turn of the decade, I had declared that the coming decade would be all about living my life. I didn’t anticipate that my life would take over and I would find myself more lost than ever while trying to manage a full-time career, long commute, and two young boys. Before long I was completely depleted without the reserves I needed to weather another storm, let alone a normal day.

I believed it was my job to be in control. I focused all of my energies on being a good mom. I forgot to spend any energy on me. I didn’t know that it was okay to ask for help.

My life swelled into a tidal wave of fatigue and sadness. There were moments, raw and dark moments, when I wished for everyone and everything to go away. I considered running away. Strong was my desire to be alone with my struggles and to escape.

I wanted quiet. Instead I got help.

And then I shared the depths of my struggle in a very public way at Coffees & Commutes. There was surprise, both online and offline. I had locked this part of myself away, holding tightly to the illusion that all was well and I was managing. I had been deep in denial, focused on painting a pretty portrait. Until then my sadness was my own, isolated and hidden to all but my husband.

In sharing my darkest secret so publicly, I worried. I felt vulnerable. As I laid myself bare I wondered how it would unfold. I wanted to be honest. I wrote about my sadness because we don’t talk of this enough. It was my hope that my honesty could help another in some small way.

In so doing I discovered kindness – the kind that provides a lifeline to a person deeply in distress – and compassion that can come only from one mother to another to another.

I was overwhelmed and buoyed by the support, the generosity of spirit and the wise encouragement. Women I knew and women who were complete strangers applauded me for taking a difficult step, offering a listening ear, and responding with honesty of their own.

There were many who reached out in a very personal way, too – particularly Karen Maezen Miller, a Zen priest and author of the book Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life. She gave of her time, counseled me from miles away by phone. In her wisdom and kindness she gave me permission to struggle. She opened a window for me that had previously been sealed shut. She broke through. By giving an hour of her time, she helped.

That is the magic of compassion, the power it has to help even just one. It is also the magic of a sisterhood of mothers. We understand each other; can make a difference, not only to our children but to each other. Whether through a few kind words, or a phone call to a fellow mother facing her darkest hour, it only takes a moment, a few words of kindness, to make a world of difference.

Christine is a full-time communications professional and mother of two boys. She blogs about the madness and sweetness that is life at www.coffeesandcommutes.com.