Why I tell my 5-year-old the truth about my mental health 

Words by Liz Hammond

Some people are left-handed, diabetic, or deathly afraid of spiders. I was born with a mind that’s prone to melancholy and anxious thoughts. At times, I have cursed this sadness, but I have grown to appreciate it, too: I knew it was also what gave me the capacity to write, to cry real tears over the endings of books and the passing of time, to make meaningful connections with strangers and beautiful friendships that last a lifetime. 

There were times where my sadness became a burden, though. Panic attacks and my relentless pursuit of perfection landed me with a prescription for anti-anxiety medication in my early twenties. I weathered the ebbs and flows of my mood for years after. Then, in the depths of COVID, I had my first baby and fell into a painful postpartum depression that I thought I’d never recover from. It wasn’t until recently that I identified the strange luxury of silence I had during those bleak days in 2020. Because my son was an infant, he didn’t need an explanation for why mommy was crying on the couch while trying to breastfeed, behind her sunglasses at the park, in the shower, in bed, everywhere she went. As time went on and I found a therapist, psychiatrist, and medication that worked for me, the sadness began to lift and I felt like myself again. 

To my surprise, five years later, my sadness returned. Depression and anxiety never recur for one reason alone, but if I had to pick one culprit for this relapse, it would be my self-imposed urgency to decide whether or not we were ready (or if I truly wanted) to have another baby. I’m still not totally sure, but I’m at peace with the uncertainty. Similar to when I was postpartum, I was struggling to get out of bed, constantly teary. I found everyday tasks — like grocery shopping and getting my son ready for the day — impossibly difficult. I pulled back from work commitments, stayed off social media, and made my circle small to protect what little energy I had. This episode was more complicated, however, because my son was now completely aware that something was definitely up with his mom. 

I tried my best to hide it—having whispered conversations with my husband, crying in the shower, asking my mom to take over daycare and activity drop off so I could be alone with my shame and infinite anxiety. I couldn’t always keep my struggles under wraps, though. I made excuses at first — that mommy had a headache or was tired — but lying to him quickly started to feel wrong. I am a notorious open book and am passionate about transparency when it comes to mental health, yet I wasn’t being honest with one of the most important people in my life. 

So I started sharing what I was going through in a way that my kind and curious five-year old son would understand. I told him that sometimes mommy feels sad and worried and there isn’t always a reason why. That I am okay. That this won’t be forever. I asked him if he ever feels worried or sad and he nodded softly. I held his sticky little hand in mine and told him he could always tell me if he felt down, for any reason, at any time. And then he ran off and returned to his cars and trains, because that’s the beauty of kids. They don’t try to fix things or find answers. They just listen. 

As brutal and defeating as it was, this bout of anxiety and depression didn’t last as long or feel as impossible because of the resources and tools I already had in place from past experience. My son continued to ask questions and always made notice of when I was visibly struggling. He even started to learn what was helpful for me to hear when things started to feel like too much: “Just take a deep bref mommy,” he’d say with his signature cheeky grin. If I ever doubted it before, this episode taught me that weathering the ebbs and flows of my mental health would always be a part of my life. If and when I go through another rough patch, I plan to continue this conversation with my son because it feels like more than a teachable moment. It feels necessary, even urgent. 

I’m of the belief that mothers of sons play a crucial role in shaping the next generation of compassionate, emotionally-intelligent men. I also know men and boys have historically lacked space to speak openly about mental health, and the statistics show the tragic cost. Globally, boys consistently have higher suicide mortality rates than girls and men account for 80% of nearly all suicides. I’m committed to keeping an open dialogue so that my son always knows he can come to me with anything he is carrying. 

I often think about something I read in a memoir about mental illness by Jenny Lawson called Furiously Happy. She writes that in the throes of mental illness, she often felt guilty about what she wasn’t able to do as a parent. Lawson says that sometimes all she could muster was spending time with her daughter while cuddled up on the couch watching reruns of their favourite show. She shares this sentiment in a blog post and receives a response that helped shift my thinking when I was experiencing mom guilt amidst my own mental health crisis. A reader comments that this guilt seems to be an “American problem, because the places where they lived (mainly Europe) judged success less by things and accomplishments and more by feelings. Happiness came from spending time with people and…spending a few hours watching TV with the kids on the couch was something to celebrate and enjoy, rather than feel guilty about.” 

In those dark couple of weeks, I may have cooked even less than usual, done less drop offs, and had the TV on way more, but I was always there, having conversations with my son that I hope will shape how he sees the ups and downs of his and others’ mental health. I hope those quiet moments between my tears and his episodes of Bluey will help him understand that feeling sad or worried doesn’t make someone weak. It just makes them human. 

Liz Hammond is a freelance copywriter and essayist whose work has been featured in Vogue, Huffington Post, TODAY, and more. She’s currently working on a novel inspired by her experience with postpartum depression and lives in Vancouver, Canada with her husband and son.