I spent three years in a fog of despair. After battling major depressive disorder for nearly a decade, my mind, heart, and body reached their breaking point. At just 23, I was utterly exhausted—exhausted from pretending to be okay. I felt emotionally drained, lost, and completely numb.
Suddenly, I could no longer function as an ordinary person. The most mundane tasks felt like climbing a mountain. Brushing my teeth? That was my Everest. I couldn’t stay awake; I didn’t want to be awake. Being conscious felt like a heavy burden, so I quit my job and turned to full-time sleep.
That marked the beginning of three long years in which I slept through life.
During this time, I was living in California, far away from my family and friends back in New York. The distance provided a perfect cover to hide my struggles. I posted on social media regularly to maintain the facade and answered friendly texts only when I had the energy. To the outside world, I seemed fine.
But my husband, Alex, witnessed my decline. He had been there throughout my struggle with depression, but this was a different level of despair. I became a mere shadow of my former self, a ghost who no longer engaged with him. In an attempt to help, he moved us back to New York, hoping that proximity to family would encourage me to socialize. But I was too far gone to help myself, and so I sank deeper into my depression.
I slept through those years on the couch, waking only to eat. I neglected simple self-care tasks, leading to frequent UTIs because I couldn’t bring myself to get up. I barely showered and gained 70 pounds in the process.
By April 2016, my relationship was hanging by a thread. I had not been the partner I promised to be, and Alex was exhausted from my unwillingness to fight my depression. We were drifting apart while I was lost in my slumber.
Then, everything changed. On April 4, 2016, I woke up feeling horrific. I joked to Alex that I might be pregnant, and we laughed it off. But after throwing up five times that day and taking five pregnancy tests, it became clear: I was indeed pregnant, and we were nowhere near ready for it, emotionally or financially.
We argued about my ability to be a mother. I could barely care for myself, let alone anyone else. The thought of having to stay awake long enough to raise a child filled me with dread. But in the end, we decided to move forward.
My pregnancy was fraught with complications, and mounting medical bills forced us back into our parents’ houses. It was hardly the ideal situation. I worked tirelessly to stay positive about my illness and the baby, while Alex focused on saving money for our future. It was exhausting for both of us, until my 16-week appointment.
I had chosen to be surprised about the baby’s sex, hoping it would give me something to look forward to. But after weeks of being bedridden, I felt disconnected from the baby. I didn’t feel like a mother; I felt like a victim of my own circumstances.
At my 16-week appointment, a doctor wheeled me down for a full anatomy scan. “Do you want to know the sex of the baby?” she asked. I looked at Alex, longing for some connection. I needed to know there was a real baby in there. He nodded, and I held my breath.
“It’s a girl.”
Tears filled my eyes as I looked at Alex. “It’s Mia,” I said. “It’s our Mia.” From that moment on, I became a mother—a mother battling depression, but a mother nonetheless.
Suddenly, my emotional crutch was gone. I had often fantasized about suicide as an escape from my endless suffering, but now I couldn’t entertain that thought. I would soon have someone who needed me more than I’d ever needed myself. The idea of never being alone again was both terrifying and motivating.
In the weeks leading up to Mia’s birth, I knew I needed to change—I had no choice. I forced myself to be present, even though it felt uncomfortable. Being awake for hours was jarring, and I often longed to retreat back to bed. But I made an effort to eat, brush my teeth, shower, and train myself for the responsibilities of motherhood. I stumbled through some meals and lost weight unintentionally, but I was trying, and that was a significant improvement over the years I had spent in hibernation.
When Mia arrived, she came into the world in a flash—quietly looking up at me as if we were old friends. In that moment, I knew I would do anything to keep her safe. For the first time in years, I felt genuine happiness. I was proud of myself, my body, and my journey. I had never appreciated myself more.
Before Mia was born, I thought motherhood meant forcing myself to stay awake. But now, I wake up every day because I want to. Motherhood pulled me out of my deep slumber, allowing me to experience all the beautiful moments I had missed.
I still face challenges, struggling with severe postpartum anxiety and PTSD from my pregnancy. The worry about Mia consumes me. But at least now, I’m awake to feel that worry.
For those navigating similar journeys, check out this resource on pregnancy and consider an at-home insemination kit if you’re exploring options. You can also dive into more ideas about self-care and mental health over at this blog post.
In summary, motherhood catalyzed my awakening from a prolonged struggle with depression. It forced me to confront my illness and embrace life, even amidst ongoing challenges. I may still be fighting, but at least I’m awake to face it all.