There is a time the skatepark changes and that’s when you become a mother to a grom. Everything on the surface looks the same: the sound of wheels over concrete, the rhythm of boards hitting the ground, the familiar energy of people moving through space and trying things that don’t always work the first time. But your position within it shifts. You notice it in how you stand, in how long you look around, how you speak, in the way your attention moves outward instead of staying contained in your own body.

Before, the risk was yours to hold. You felt it physically; in the hesitation before committing to something new, in the quick calculation between trying and falling, in the decision to go anyway. It was manageable, even when it was uncomfortable. But when it’s your child standing at the top of the ramp, something changes. The risk doesn’t disappear; it relocates. It becomes external, harder to regulate, and much more difficult to control. There’s a different kind of awareness that settles in, one that is less about your own limits and more about witnessing someone else discover theirs.

You put your board down and watch something new, something more important than before. What used to be a space for your own focus, shifts without you really noticing when it happened. Your phone is still in your hand, but it’s no longer propped up on the ledge facing you, it’s turned toward a different board, capturing a different kind of moment; your attention follows them now. You’ve been pulled away from something that was once yours because something else, in this space, has taken priority. But it feels right, it feels bigger than what you stepped away from and it’s…. anxiously exciting…?

What becomes clear (sometimes faster than you expect), is that this kind of fear doesn’t get to run the show. The skatepark doesn’t allow for that, and neither does the process of learning. You can’t step in at the exact moment it matters, and you can’t absorb the fall on their behalf. What you can do is stand close enough to be steady, but far enough to allow something to happen that doesn’t belong to you. You’re a key player but it’s now not your game. You begin to find your balance again, but it’s not on a board, it’s somewhere between restraint and support.

From the outside, it can look uneventful. A mother sitting on the edge of a ramp, probably holding a phone, maybe offering a quiet word of encouragement that feels more for herself than for her child. Long stretches of waiting………. watching, saying very little. Internally, there is a constant recalibration happening; an instinct to protect doesn’t disappear, it evolves. It becomes something more intentional, for example: choosing not to interrupt when you could, choosing to trust when it would feel easier to redirect, learning to tolerate the space where uncertainty lives without rushing in to close it. You’re embracing and that’s not always easy.

In that space, your understanding of progress starts to shift. It stops being tied to outcomes in the way it might have been before. You begin to see how much is happening in the pauses, in the hesitation, in the repeated attempts that don’t quite come together. Learning, especially in environments like the skatepark, rarely looks clean or efficient. It looks like circling the same challenge over and over again, hyping up and stepping forward to breathe out and step back, negotiating internally before anything visible changes on the outside.

You recognize it because you’ve lived it. You’ve felt these same patterns in your own body: the hesitation, the buildup, the quiet decision to try. But now you’re seeing it from the outside, in real time, with the same emotional weight attached. It’s familiar, but different enough, from this vantage point, that it asks something new from you.

It’s in those moments that your role becomes clearer: you’re not directing the process, and you’re not removed from it either. You exist somewhere in between, holding space for something that has to belong to them. That in-between place can feel uncertain at times, especially if you’re used to being more actively involved or in control. But it’s also where a different kind of connection forms, one that is built on trust rather than instruction.

There’s an internal shift happening in your own identity. Being a mother in spaces like this doesn’t always align with the version of yourself that existed before. Your relationship to risk changes, not necessarily because you’re less capable, but because the context around your decisions has expanded. Injury carries different weight, time is distributed differently, energy is negotiated.

If you skate as well, there’s another layer to this. How do you move comfortably on your board while your child is rolling down a ramp? The honest answer is that, sometimes, you don’t. Not in the same way, anyways. Your focus shifts and you find yourself wanting to be present for every attempt, every near miss, every small breakthrough. Your own moment on the board doesn’t disappear, but it pauses.

But even if you don’t skate, you are still part of this.

What begins to emerge, slowly and often without being acknowledgement, is a kind of quiet community. Women of different ages, different skill levels, different reasons for being there; some skating, some watching, some doing both in uneven rhythms. There is an understanding that moves between them, something that doesn’t need to be explained to be felt. A glance, a smile, a shared moment when someone’s child lands something they’ve been working toward. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

You start to realize that belonging here isn’t dependent on what you do on a board, it’s in how you show up. In the way you stay, and witness not just your own child, but others too. The way you become part of something that holds more than just individual progress.

And within that, you are still accepted here; not in spite of the shift in your role, but within it. You are no longer only the person doing, or the one pushing for your own progression. You are also the one holding space, the one witnessing, the documenter, the one steadying something just by being present. It is a different kind of participation, but it is still real, it feels good and it’s something you can hold close.

Over time, you begin to understand that the park can hold more than one version of you at once. The skater, the mother, the observer, the person who just needed to get out of the house and breathe for a minute. Because for many mothers, places like this become something else too. It becomes something close to self-care, even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside. It’s not quiet or still but it offers something rare: a moment of presence that is shared, a place where your body can settle and flow, where your mind can soften, where you are allowed to exist without needing to be everything all at once. A place you can celebrate and feel for yourself, your kids …. other humans.

And with bringing your child into that space, you’re not just supporting their growth, you’re showing them something about what it means to exist in a community like this. That there is room for different people, different paces, different ways of being involved. That support can look like standing back just as much as stepping in.

Your kids see the way you exist within it, the way you adjust, the way you stay, the way you continue (even if it looks different than it once did). They see that you are still part of something, that you didn’t disappear when your role changed… you expanded, you invited them in, you gave them a golden egg.

There is strength in that, and it doesn’t demand attention or need to be even noticed but it holds steady over time as they grow. Somewhere within all of it: the watching, the waiting, the small, shared moments, the celebrated times - you begin to feel it settle in yourself. You are still here, still moving. Just in a different way than before, embrace that.

 

 

Postpartum Me?

Chantel McDougall, 2017

I stressed over this topic the whole way to my six-week OB appointment; feeling nauseous, heart-pounding, overthinking, ruminating. I don’t know why my mind was complicating things more than necessary. The topic tangled in my head like a big spider web, catching other stressors in my life along the way like struggling flies. I knew the doctor was going to ask me about Postpartum Depression and I didn’t know how to answer her. 

I was overwhelmed and sad at times; however, I wasn’t constantly feeling this way. I didn’t know if a ‘label’ was required; at the same time, during my anxiety and feeling overwhelmed, I was sad.

That morning, before my appointment, I had a little bit of an adult temper tantrum while talking to my husband. Our dishwasher broke the previous week. I had become a professional dishwasher; this was all I spent my time doing. Washing, drying, putting away, repeat. It caused no time to complete other, more important, things in life. That morning, this triggered me to have a tiny bit of a major meltdown. I cried like my dog died and I think it scared my husband. His eyes looked puzzled, he tried to fix my mood, he hugged me, he had to get to work. So, yes, I was feeling a little sad at my six-week OB check.

When I got to my appointment, I was waiting in the exam room, the OB resident breezed in and introduced himself.

“Hi, my name is blah blah blah, I am the OB resident. How are you, Chantel?”

“I’m alright, thanks. How are you?”

From here, he asked me a cluster of questions regarding my physical health and during the thick of it, I had a perplexing feeling come over me. I realized that ‘how are you?’ he casually asked me was the mental status exam. At the end of the interview, he threw in, completely out of the left-field:

“Do you ever feel like you want to hurt or kill your children or yourself?”

Oh! Ok, we just go right to first-degree murder. “Figuratively or truthfully? Lol no.”

He smirked, “Great. If you do, go to the hospital. You know this! You’re a nurse.”

Yes. Yes, I do technically know this. It’s a goddamn battlefield out here though, caudle me a little bit through this one. The radiologist doesn’t do his own MRI, don’t make me do my own Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. According to The National Perinatal Association, over 50 percent of women who experience symptoms of any Perinatal Mood and Anxiety Disorders (PMAD) will not seek treatment, so maybe a little help on catching this in the office would be useful, yeah? Let’s save some bullshit. Not just for me but for all the women out in that waiting room.

Then he left. I envisioned him walking out of the room, throwing papers in the air and yelling, ‘Fuck it! It’s Friday!’

Sir, I feel like you missed a few important steps in there. Maybe asking a couple of warm-up questions? 

·       How are you emotionally these days? 

·       Any feelings of anger, overwhelmed, rage, any extra crying lately? 

·       Those red eyes you have, are those from having an adult temper tantrum this morning?

·       Maybe overtired? 

·       How are the support systems in your life? 

Instead: “Are you good? Or are you planning murder-suicide?” That was that.

I left stewing; since I am an authentic overthinker, I came up with so many more questions about the Postpartum Depression diagnostic system in OB offices. I knew Canada, in general, lagged in the Postpartum Depression diagnostic department but this just proved it. 

The Canadian government doesn’t recommend routine, universal PMAD screening. In fact, in comparison to the UK, Australia, and the USA, we are the only ones who don’t. In the USA, the recommendation is to screen post-delivery at months 1,2,3 and 6. Our government recommendations are: unless you show obvious signs of depression, took antidepressants before pregnancy, or currently admit to substance abuse, you’re fine. Great! Thanks, guys.

I understand the importance of self-reporting, being responsible and speaking up when you’re experiencing depressive symptoms; however, sometimes these feelings go unnoticed or are intimidating. Between changing diapers every 33 minutes, breastfeeding, cleaning, cooking, errands, trying to be somewhat social (even if you don’t want to be); self-care goes out the window and you don’t look at yourself. Having that self-reflective moment and asking “how are YOU doing old friend?” doesn’t exist. 

What is this Postpartum Depression anyways? Maybe this is just a part of parenting and maybe it’s just some baby blues. Where is the line? Is “baby blues” still ‘a thing’? TELL ME! When you’re looking at yourself, in the thick of it, sometimes it’s hard to distinguish… anything.

Dad’s experiencing PMAD’s are slowly becoming more of a conversation in society. 1 in 10 dads will experience a PMAD. Yet, they are not required to attend the six-week follow-up appointment. Possibly, this should be a family appointment. When the resident asked me how I was doing and I said fine, my husband would have said ‘well except for that adult temper tantrum you had this morning.’ Ah. Let’s talk about that. 

PMAD’s not only affected the person experiencing them but also the function of the family. I’m sure my husband didn’t appreciate that little display as he was leaving for his one-hour commute to work. So, whether it is the mother or father diagnosed, the partner in the family will also be affected. The National Perinatal Association also states that if there is maternal depression, it’s more likely that the father will commonly experience depression within the 3-6-month period. Also, simply, he may have some thoughts or questions he doesn’t even know about until in that exam room.

The way I feel most days is good, I am very lucky with the supports I have in my life. My husband is very hands-on, most nights, I have time to unwind and relax. Although, there are times where I am completely overwhelmed, sad, feeling left out, angry… it all happens. Call it Postpartum Depression? Call it ‘normal in parenting’? Who knows, I’m not labeling it. I just acknowledge and work on it when I feel it.

When you have a baby in a swaddle because she won’t stop screaming and still need to get life done; you are busting a sweat, vacuuming a carpet with a 15 lb baby attached to your front. When you haven’t had a shower without your toddler for weeks because ‘it’s just easier’. When one of two babies have been awake the same hours you have with no breaks for a week straight. Sometimes overwhelm doesn‘t cut it as a good enough verb.  I give you moms the silent nod. I get it.