A Personal Gratitude for Dolly
As the world says goodbye to Dolly Parton, this momma is reflecting on the moments Dolly transformed in my own early motherhood.
I first became a momma at 28 years old. Looking back now, a decade and a half later, I can see that I was deeply struggling with postpartum depression and anxiety. At that moment, I thought, “This is just how it is now. This is motherhood.” All my friends who had become mothers lived in other states. I had left my job and co-workers and moved across the country to be closer to my family. My then-husband was less than supportive while dealing with his own struggles. I was mainly left alone to grapple with surviving and understanding a colicky baby and a harrowing postpartum recovery.
Struggling postpartum took me by surprise. I knew nothing of matrescence, maternal mental health, or pelvic floor therapists. Yet my resume of experience read as highly qualified to become a mother and ace that life chapter test. I had worked with and cared for children since I was a child. I had a master’s in counseling, I was certified in behavioral sciences, and I trained parents in how to help their children better function and succeed in their environment. I had potty-trained, taught children to ride bikes, tie their shoes, say their first words, reduced tantrums, built safety skills for parking lots and family outings, and on and on. I had this.
Physically, I was an athlete with a high pain tolerance, strong body, and mental focus. I trained every day of pregnancy in preparation. I was an academic nerd who read all the empowering birth books and was ready to thrive. Spiritually, I was solid in my faith and church community.
Relationally, I had followed the appropriate checklist of finding a partner who appeared to match all the evangelical values I had been taught mattered. Motherhood was going to be the pinnacle of my achievements, and I was going to earn a gold star. Instead, it literally and figuratively ripped me apart.
Bringing my firstborn into the world was, by all medical measures, a natural birth success, yet a broken mother was born. Feeling traumatized by my birth experience and many unexpected feelings of medical and personal betrayal and isolation, I began motherhood confused, exhausted, and in physical and emotional pain.
My perfect, beautiful daughter was also struggling. She was colicky and had reflux and food sensitivities I couldn’t identify, no matter how many triggers I eliminated. My core was left so weak that it hurt to hold her for very long. And she preferred a stroller anyway. The serene baby-wearing strolls I had imagined were just a pipe dream. My milk let down way too fast, and nursing made us both cry. Pumping made us both cry harder. Going for stroller walks was the only time we both stopped crying. Being inside, the walls felt like they were closing in on us.
Dolly came to the rescue. One day, my sister brought a Dolly Parton record over that she had found at a secondhand shop. My baby daughter instantly fell in love. I held my precious baby and danced and swirled and twirled around the tiny living room while Dolly belted out song after song. We both smiled and laughed. The most glorious glimmer. Dancing to Dolly became a part of our daily routine. The happiest bit. Baby Girl’s favorite song was “Potential New Boyfriend,” but every song felt like a magical balm to my soul. Dancing to Dolly saved us.
Eventually, the darkness started to fade, the sun shined brighter, baby outgrew her colic, my body healed, and I found a new, safe, healthy, and supportive partner. I learned about maternal mental health and built protective, supportive care and community for myself and others. Motherhood turned out to not just be darkness and struggles, but a beautiful, heartbreaking, complex, and altogether lovely thing that I do thrive and flourish in. The bright moments aren’t just brief glimmers anymore. They outweigh the hard days by far. But I will forever be grateful for Dolly and the bright glimmers of happiness and hope her music gave me and my first baby, swirling around in that tiny living room with the record player on.
The fun thing is that I was able to tell her thank you, in a way. Her plane flew into the local airport when my dad was working the tower, and he told her pilot what a special impact she had on his daughter and granddaughter. Dolly never had the opportunity to mother her own children, yet brought maternal light, positivity and hope to so many children around the world. Including my own.
I am forever grateful for her.
Rest in peace, Dolly. We will always love you.
