Alright – so today we’ve got the honor of introducing you to Meghan Ensell. We think you’ll enjoy our conversation, we’ve shared it below.

Alright, Meghan thanks for taking the time to share your stories and insights with us today. Let’s talk about innovation. What’s the most innovative thing you’ve done in your career?

During this time, my parents’ marriage crumbled and my family feel apart. I wanted out so I moved to Phoenix. To get me on my feet, my uncle gave me a job at his bank, which really isn’t worth getting into. In part because I only worked there for a year, but mostly because I have no idea what I did there. By this time, I had my master’s in Clinical Psychology and was hired as a therapist at the Arizona State Psychiatric Hospital, working with the Guilty Except Insane population, where I felt right at home.

I worked with patients who strangled their mothers with phone cords, patients who walked around cuddling and kissing Cabbage Patch Dolls, as if they were their children, and patients who were rapists.

Forty-year-old Tim* (not his real name) was in for rape. I adored him. We had sort of a special relationship, whereas, he would come to my office every morning, fill me in on the hospital gossip, tell me some pretty stellar jokes and devour the latest In Style magazine with me. But then, things got weird.

One winter morning, Tim came to my office with a grocery sack and handed it to me. I opened it to find a pair of red, silky pajamas. It was a set, you know, a pair of pants and a top. I carefully examined them. They were frayed and had visibly been worn. The sleeves and ankles were lined with black feathers. I detected must. After all of the In Style’s we read together, how could Tim give me these? And then, he told me they were special. They were his mother’s.

Now, I feel like I’m probably sounding like the crazy one here. I’m describing these pajamas to you like they were a real Christmas present from a boyfriend – not a mentally ill person. Why would I do that? A normal person would probably have just shoved them right back in the bag and been super creeped out. I was becoming desensitized to his behavior and so, after five years of working with the criminally insane, I left.

I was not totally qualified. People were writing to me, asking my opinion on the best sex positions. What, there was more than just missionary? People wanted details on furry fetishes. Huh, did that mean spooning underneath a thick, furry blanket? And, I received questions wanting to know the proper way to ask someone to swing. Like, make love in a hammock?

I was clueless, but my intuition told me this was not what these people were referring to. Ultimately, I ended up doing more research for this job than I ever did for my dissertation.

I was writing about objects I had never seen or used before, teaching classes about activities I had never done or heard of, and overseeing events that made me more uncomfortable than wearing pantyhose in the middle of August. I began pathologizing every customer I came into contact with at these events.

Gauged ears, cheek and tongue rings, sleeved tattoos and she’s a dominatrix? Clearly this girl is into pain because she was sexually abused at some point, felt a loss of power and this is her way of controlling it. He dresses up as a baby, wears a collar and likes to be spanked by much older women? Surely, his mom abandoned him as an infant resulting in insecure attachment issues. And so on, and so forth.

And then, it hit me. These people were here for fun. I was here for work. Also, what gave me the right to pathologize them? What about me? Maybe I was the sick one. I kept putting myself in all of these chaotic, dysfunctional situations, after all.

And, so I entered the corporate world, writing about less provocative things. Soon, I became a mom, got married, got a dog and as they say, “settled down.” This new life suits me. My kids provide copious amounts of writing material and a love I could have never imagined existed.

Great, appreciate you sharing that with us. Before we ask you to share more of your insights, can you take a moment to introduce yourself and how you got to where you are today to our readers?

I am a married mother of two — under the age of 6. My background is in clinical psychology and for 15 years, I worked as a therapist in prisons and psychiatric hospitals. I also spent time as a relationship expert, acting as a consultant for adult boutiques, and radio and TV shows. A few years ago, I found myself crying in a therapy session (not mine!) and decided I may be burning out. Falling back on my love of writing and storytelling, I now work as a copywriter at a university. During my “off-time” I blog about pregnancy, motherhood and relationships, and am working on turning my essays into a book. I also co-host a parenting podcast with my friend, Emjaye, and perform on Arizona’s live-storytelling scene.

Is there a particular goal or mission driving your creative journey?

“What did you want to be when you growed up, Mama?” my 6-year-old son, Archer, asks me as I lie next to him in his bed. It’s one of our nightly bedtime chats, in which we talk until I wear him down and he nods off, and I sneak out.

“Well,” I say, stroking his hair, “I always wanted to be a ballet dancer or an author.”

“Oh, so is that what you do now?” he asks, earnestly.

Ouch. Leave it to a child to remind you of your failures.

“Not exactly,” I stammer, “I write, but I haven’t authored a book yet. And you’ve seen me dance.” I give him a squeeze.

He laughs. And I see that my answer satisfies him so I shift the focus. “Now it’s your turn. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Shifting the focus seems to be a successful parenting tactic. Kids — at this age — aren’t really interested in anyone but themselves. Archer doesn’t ask me any follow-up questions about my writing, dancing or lack thereof. He just wants my attention. And I give it to him.

“I want to be a veterinarian, dog walker, doctor, pilot or artist,” he tells me before his heavy eyelids fall shut. And then I do what I always do when he falls asleep: I stare at his beautiful face and marvel at the miracle of his existence. I smell his hair, kiss his cheek and linger a bit, certain he will achieve whatever he sets his mind to. And then, feeling a sadness that I have not.

That’s the thing about parenthood: It gives you a reality check. Sure, I had career goals in my 20s and 30s, but I didn’t agonize over them. I thought I had all of the time in the world to write a book, get my PhD, travel to Peru to experiment with Ayahuasca and do anything else that would make my future kids proud.

And then one day I woke up and I was driving under the speed limit with a “Baby on Board’’ bumper sticker, dancing to “I’m a Little Teapot,” picking Goldfish out of my car seat and shoving them into my mouth, wearing high-waisted cotton briefs, and picking stickers and Play-Doh out of my hair before going to bed at 8 p.m. Who was I and how was I going to find the time to make my kids proud of me?

Purging my demons via a psychoactive brew in a foreign country would have to wait. Besides, I was already wrestling those demons at home. Parenthood forces us to look at our past, namely our childhood, and try to make some sort of sense out of it. Understanding our younger selves as well as our parents is thought to make us better present-day parents, or so research says.

It makes sense. Recognizing the ways in which our parents affected us is all a part of becoming an adult. And with that understanding — not blaming — we can see the way our past plays out in our parenting style, behavior and how it affects our children.

My mom was a pushover. To get out of being grounded, I’d write her a sweet poem detailing my love for her, and I was un-grounded. And she never said ‘no’ to treats. After-school snacks were Twinkies or Doritos, while homemade cinnamon rolls, cake and bread were readily available. Friends loved to come over because rules were minimal and my mom was “fun.”

All of this is to say that when I pick Archer and Isla up from school, I have a treat for them. Putting them in time-out is gut-wrenching and I don’t put up a fight when they want to sleep in my bed. These behaviors, albeit instinctual, have been the root of many arguments with my husband. And I get it. I do. I’m working on becoming a better disciplinarian. Treats have decreased, chores have increased and rules are enforced.

So when I obsessively wonder if my children will be proud of me, maybe I shouldn’t. Instead, I should take comfort in knowing that I’m constantly trying to be and do better — for them. But also, I am nearly finished with my book and plan to self-publish. It is dedicated to both of them and hopefully, one day, they will read it and be proud of their mom.

We’d love to hear a story of resilience from your journey.

I went back to work six weeks after giving birth to my daughter, Isla. I was still bleeding. My breasts were still leaking. My hemorrhoids hadn’t healed. My hormones … Well, let’s just say they weren’t back to normal. And, of course, Isla wasn’t sleeping and neither was I. But six weeks is the maternity leave that my employer offered, so that’s what I took. (Side note: I was covered under FMLA so I could have taken an additional six weeks, but that felt indulgent and sinful. Work needed me!)

So I slapped on a maxi pad, slathered on some Preparation H, stuck on nipple pads, smeared on mascara, chugged some coffee and off I went — Isla stayed home with her grandma.

The mascara didn’t last long. I bawled the whole 20-minute drive to work and I couldn’t make myself stop. There was no identifiable cause of my tears — it was physiological. Isla was my second baby so I knew some baby blues, as the experts call them, were to be expected. With my son, Archer (now six), I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and put on medications. I also got to stay home with him for six months.

Six months is way different than six weeks. I bonded with Archer. I felt like I knew him. I knew which cry was a hungry cry and which cry was a dirty diaper cry. I knew his schedule. I knew when he napped and when he ate. And he knew me. I could tell by his smiles and laughs when he saw me and by his cries when I left.

This time around, I felt like I didn’t know Isla and was certain she didn’t know me. In casual conversation, people would ask me how much she ate in one feeding. I didn’t know. They’d ask how long her naps were. I didn’t know. And if I didn’t know her, how could she possibly know me? She smiled at her dad, mostly.

Back when I was pregnant with Isla, those same people would ask me how much time I was taking for maternity leave. I’d tell them, “Six weeks.” My answer was almost always met with a gasp. So much so that I would feel the need to explain, “It’s fine. Why would companies offer six weeks of maternity leave if women really needed more?”

I wasn’t fine. Six weeks for maternity leave is bullshit.

I struggled through my first week back. Every day was filled with intermittent sobbing. What was the point in popping out a baby, going right back to work and letting someone else bond with her? Shouldn’t that be the mother’s job? She and I maybe got to spend two-and-a-half quality hours together. I felt like I was getting robbed.

Isla would typically get up for the day around 6:30 a.m. and I’d leave for work by 8 a.m. I’d get home around 5:30 p.m., make dinner, eat, give baths and try to get both kids to bed by 8 p.m. (FYI: my partner played a helpful role in this routine.) And anyone who also has a toddler knows how chaotic the mornings and evenings can be.

They’re filled with directives such as: Get up! Brush your teeth! Eat your breakfast! Get dressed! Don’t color on the walls! While the evenings are similar but different: Pick up your toys! Eat your dinner! Put your penis away at the table! Take a bath! Don’t poop in the tub! And so on and so forth.

I just wanted to be home with Isla. Not at work.

So while in a team meeting one morning, the sobbing started and I couldn’t stop it. I camped out in the restroom for the remainder of the meeting and then walked to my boss’s office. He’s a progressive, middle-aged man — with two daughters and a wife — so I felt semi-comfortable losing my shit in front of him. That said, I still wanted my job and didn’t want him to think I was “crazy.”

Outside of his door, I composed myself and walked in. “I’m not OK,” I said. He sort of smiled, not knowing what was coming next. But, all I could do was blubber and stammer, “It won’t stop. The tears won’t stop. I don’t know why. They just won’t.”

A veil of compassion fell over his face and he said, softly, “It’s OK. It’s physiological. It’s hormones. Need some water?”

No, I told him. I just needed to calm down.

“Go home. You don’t have to be here,” he said, “I’ll call you an Uber.”

That seemed awfully dramatic so I told him I would just sit in my office until I could drive home, which I did.

I took a few more days off, snuggled with Isla, rested and did my best not to feel guilty about it. Because my boss was right: I didn’t have to be there.

And in the world of postpartum depression and child care, I know I have it pretty good. I’ve worked with patients who suffered from postpartum psychosis and have friends who needed to be hospitalized. Childbirth is beautiful, ugly, strenuous, uncomplicated, painful, painless and emotional. It should be respected with an adequate amount of time off work.

Let’s talk about Europe. I’m sure most of you know that the norm over there is at least six months of paid leave, while several countries allow more than three years. Although I would argue that three years of leave may be excessive and detrimental to a woman and her career, I think six months is a happy medium. After all, let’s not forget that the benefits of an appropriate maternity (and paternity) leave also benefit the baby.

Today, Isla is 3-years-old and clearly knows who I am. She calls me her best friend and says, “Mama, I love you so much.” She threatens to call the police on people she thinks have wronged me. We dance together in the kitchen and sing lullabies at night. She cries when I leave the house and greets me with a bear hug when I return. We paint our nails and do one another’s hair. She sneaks sips of my iced coffee and I pretend not to notice. We do all of these things because I’m her mom.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://medium.com/@meghankrein
• Instagram: @megensell
• Facebook: @meghanensell
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/meghankrein/
• Twitter: @megkrein
• Other: https://meghanensell.pressfolios.com/