Sandy Jorgenson

Two years ago, I had a two-year-old daughter who’d never met her grandfather.

The night I discovered that tumor on her back was essentially just like any other.

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Griping about adulting is a fun thing that we like to do, I know.

You’d have a hell of a time if you ever dared to crawl through the recesses of a first-time mother’s brain.

My daughter was just reaching her first birthday before the dense fog of postpartum depression started to lift off of me. I didn’t realize it right away, though – and I certainly hadn’t even realized I was suffering from PPD at all.

The tumult that’s been rippling through our country has me begging the question: what do we do when we feel the defeat of a woman and the rise of a monster bearing down on us?

Sitting now on the cusp of my 35th birthday, I find myself taking stock of my life thus far, shoving my youth under a microscope while I ask myself this one thing: Am I careening full-tilt toward my final days on this earth, or am I only just getting started here?

This article is the second in a two-part series.

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