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I trust your a enjoyable summer: I did not. On the day we were supposed to be take a vacation, I was sitting in A&E with my husband, anticipating him to have prompt but common surgery, which resulted in our travel plans had to be cancelled.

From this situation I realized a truth significant, all over again, about how hard it is for me to feel bad when things go wrong. I’m not talking about life-altering traumas, but the more common, quietly devastating disappointments that – if we don't actually experience them – will really weigh us down.

When we were supposed to be on holiday but could not be, 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 remained low, just a bit blue. And then I would face the reality that this holiday had truly vanished: my husband’s surgery required frequent uncomfortable wound care, and there is a short period for an relaxing trip on the Belgium's beaches. So, no vacation. Just disappointment and frustration, hurt and nurturing.

I know graver situations can happen, it's merely a vacation, such a fortunate concern to have – I know because I tested that argument too. But what I wanted was to be honest with myself. In those instances when I was able to stop fighting off the disappointment and we talked about it instead, it felt like we were facing it as a team. Instead of experiencing sadness and trying to appear happy, I’ve allowed myself all sorts of difficult sentiments, including but not limited to anger and frustration and aversion and wrath, which at least felt real. At times, it even turned out to appreciate our moments at home together.

This brought to mind of a desire I sometimes notice in my counseling individuals, and that I have also seen in myself as a client in therapy: that therapy could in some way erase our difficult moments, like hitting a reverse switch. But that option only looks to the past. Confronting the reality that this is not possible and allowing the pain and fury for things not happening how we anticipated, rather than a insincere positive spin, can facilitate a change of current: from rejection and low mood, to development and opportunity. Over time – and, of course, it needs duration – this can be transformative.

We think of depression as experiencing negativity – but to my mind it’s a kind of deadening of all emotions, a pressing down of rage and grief and letdown and happiness and energy, and all the rest. The substitute for depression is not happiness, but acknowledging every sentiment, a kind of truthful emotional spontaneity and liberty.

I have often found myself trapped in this urge to click “undo”, but my young child is assisting me in moving past it. As a recent parent, I was at times overwhelmed by the astonishing demands of my baby. Not only the nursing – sometimes for a lengthy period at a time, and then again less than an hour after that – and not only the diaper swaps, and then the changing again before you’ve even finished the swap you were handling. These everyday important activities among so many others – functionality combined with nurturing – are a solace and a significant blessing. Though they’re also, at moments, unceasing and exhausting. What astounded me the most – aside from the sleep deprivation – were the emotional demands.

I had assumed my most key role as a mother was to fulfill my infant's requirements. But I soon understood that it was unfeasible to satisfy every my baby’s needs at the time she required it. Her appetite could seem endless; my milk could not come fast enough, or it came too fast. And then we needed to swap her diaper – but she despised being changed, and wept as if she were falling into a shadowy pit of misery. And while sometimes she seemed consoled by the cuddles we gave her, at other times it felt as if she were separated from us, that no comfort we gave could aid.

I soon discovered that my most crucial role as a mother was first to survive, and then to support her in managing the intense emotions caused by the impossibility of my guarding her from all unease. As she developed her capacity to take in and digest milk, she also had to build an ability to process her feelings and her distress when the milk didn’t come, or when she was hurting, or any other difficult and confusing experience – and I had to evolve with her (and my) annoyance, fury, despondency, loathing, discontent, need. My job was not to ensure everything was perfect, but to support in creating understanding to her feelings journey of things being less than perfect.

This was the contrast, for her, between being with someone who was attempting to provide her only good feelings, and instead being assisted in developing a capacity to experience all feelings. It was the contrast, for me, between wanting to feel great about performing flawlessly as a ideal parent, and instead building the ability to accept my own imperfections in order to do a good enough job – and grasp my daughter’s discontent and rage with me. The contrast between my trying to stop her crying, and comprehending when she needed to cry.

Now that we have grown through this together, I feel less keenly the wish to hit “undo” and alter our history into one where all is perfect. I find optimism in my feeling of a ability evolving internally to acknowledge that this is not possible, and to realize that, when I’m focused on striving to rebook a holiday, what I truly require is to sob.