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I trust your a good summer: I did not. On the day we were supposed to be go on holiday, I was waiting at A&E with my husband, waiting for him to have urgent but routine surgery, which caused our vacation arrangements had to be cancelled.

From this episode I learned something important, all over again, about how challenging it is for me to feel bad when things go wrong. I’m not talking about life-altering traumas, but the more everyday, subtly crushing disappointments that – if we don't actually experience them – will truly burden us.

When we were expected to be on holiday but weren't, I kept feeling a tug towards seeking optimism: “I can {book a replacement trip|schedule another vacation|arrange a different getaway”; “At least we have {travel insurance|coverage for trips|protection for journeys”; “This’ll give me {something to write about|material for an article|content for a story”. But I didn't improve, just a bit blue. And then I would face the reality that this holiday was permanently lost: my husband’s surgery necessitated frequent uncomfortable wound care, and there is a limited time window for an enjoyable break on the shores of Belgium. So, no vacation. Just disappointment and frustration, pain and care.

I know graver situations can happen, it's just a trip, such a fortunate concern to have – I know because I tested that argument too. But what I wanted was to be truthful to myself. In those instances when I was able to halt battling the disappointment and we discussed it instead, it felt like we were facing it as a team. Instead of feeling depressed and trying to smile, I’ve given myself permission all sorts of difficult sentiments, including but not limited to bitterness and resentment and loathing and fury, which at least seemed authentic. At times, it even was feasible to value our days at home together.

This reminded me of a wish I sometimes notice in my psychotherapy patients, and that I have also witnessed in myself as a client in therapy: that therapy could in some way erase our difficult moments, like pressing a reset button. But that button only goes in reverse. Acknowledging the reality that this is not possible and embracing the sorrow and anger for things not turning out how we hoped, rather than a insincere positive spin, can enable a shift: from rejection and low mood, to progress and potential. Over time – and, of course, it requires patience – this can be profoundly impactful.

We consider depression as feeling bad – but to my mind it’s a kind of numbing of all emotions, a pressing down of rage and grief and disappointment and joy and energy, and all the rest. The alternative to depression is not happiness, but acknowledging every sentiment, a kind of honest emotional expression and freedom.

I have often found myself trapped in this urge to reverse things, but my little one is supporting my evolution. As a recent parent, I was at times burdened by the incredible needs of my infant. Not only the nursing – sometimes for a lengthy period at a time, and then again soon after after that – and not only the outfit alterations, and then the doing it once more before you’ve even finished the swap you were handling. These routine valuable duties among so many others – practicality wrapped up in care – are a reassurance and a tremendous privilege. Though they’re also, at moments, relentless and draining. What shocked me the most – aside from the sleep deprivation – were the psychological needs.

I had thought my most key role as a mother was to fulfill my infant's requirements. But I soon came to realise that it was not possible to fulfill each of my baby’s needs at the time she needed it. Her hunger could seem insatiable; my supply could not arrive quickly, or it was too abundant. And then we needed to change her – but she disliked being changed, and sobbed as if she were falling into a gloomy abyss of despair. And while sometimes she seemed comforted by the embraces we gave her, at other times it felt as if she were distant from us, that nothing we had to offer could help.

I soon realized that my most key responsibility as a mother was first to survive, and then to support her in managing the overwhelming feelings provoked by the infeasibility of my protecting her from all unease. As she grew her ability to consume and process milk, she also had to build an ability to digest her emotions and her suffering when the supply was insufficient, or when she was suffering, or any other hard and bewildering experience – and I had to evolve with her (and my) frustration, rage, despair, loathing, discontent, need. My job was not to ensure everything was perfect, but to assist in finding significance to her feelings journey of things being less than perfect.

This was the distinction, for her, between having someone who was trying to give her only good feelings, and instead being supported in building a capacity to feel every emotion. It was the distinction, for me, between wanting to feel great about doing a perfect job as a flawless caregiver, and instead cultivating the skill to endure my own shortcomings in order to do a sufficiently well – and comprehend my daughter’s letdown and frustration with me. The distinction between my seeking to prevent her crying, and comprehending when she needed to cry.

Now that we have developed beyond this together, I feel reduced the wish to hit “undo” and change our narrative into one where everything goes well. I find hope in my feeling of a capacity evolving internally to recognise that this is unattainable, and to understand that, when I’m focused on striving to rearrange a trip, what I really need is to sob.