In the year following weaning my first child from , I visited a naturopath, an internist, an acupuncturist, a massage therapist, an energy healer, a talk therapist, and, most earnestly, my local pelvic floor expert, self-dubbed the “vagina whisperer” for an energetic yoni reading. I drank herbal tinctures, flower remedies, teas, adaptogens, and multivitamins. I had my blood work again and again, took an iron supplement, and was told my adrenals were on the verge of collapse.
I was prescribed cortisol which I threw away seconds after paying for it because the pharmacist explained I could die if I suddenly stopped taking it, sending my already sky-high anxiety into crippling overdrive. I practised affirmations; I , I rage , I walked, I ran, I cried, and I did mirror work. Still, a low buzz of electricity always ran through my veins.
In the wee hours, when , I tried to push back the intrusive thoughts that pummeled me—sudden images of catastrophe befalling my family—by visualising the parts of a tree. I did not understand what was happening to me. I was wired but tired with a growing collection of supplements and green juices that were putting me into debt that I couldn’t confess to my husband or myself.
My daughter had just turned two years old, and one day, she abruptly told me she was done with “tee-tee” (her name for breastmilk), and I thought that was it. A new phase. More bodily autonomy.
No one had warned me what could happen. Wellness, or the pursuit thereo.