I should have known something was off when I found myself more excited about a plate of sushi than holding my newborn daughter. It was clear things weren’t right when I broke down in tears while struggling to strap our three-day-old daughter, Lily, into her car seat. I should have recognized the signs when I handed our week-old baby to her grandmother and retreated to the bathroom to sob quietly.
In hindsight, I can see that I cried every day after Lily’s birth—except for the day she arrived. The first night in the hospital, I cried because sleep eluded me. The next day, tears flowed as I dealt with the intense pain from my recovery. Living in a four-story walk-up meant feeling every stitch from my second-degree tear with each step. But the tears continued even when there didn’t seem to be a reason. It felt instinctual, like breathing, and I would find myself crying several times a day.
I realized I was grappling with postpartum depression when Lily was six weeks old. One afternoon, while she napped, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were puffy, my skin looked lifeless, and clumps of my once-healthy hair lay on my shoulders. My doctor had warned me about hair loss due to hormonal changes, but I didn’t care—I needed it gone. I poured all my energy into those brittle strands, remnants of the woman I used to be before becoming “Lily’s mom.”
That weekend, I visited a salon, pointed to a photo of a stylish pixie cut, and left with hair shorter than my husband’s. For a fleeting moment, I reveled in that change; it symbolized a return to a sense of self. However, that feeling quickly faded. I spiraled deeper into a state of hopelessness, emotional numbness, and disconnection. I felt distant from my daughter, and I struggled to connect with my husband, sometimes questioning my love for them both.
Depression is hard to articulate. It’s a paradox of feeling everything and nothing at the same time. You know you’re alive because you go through the motions—eating, moving, breathing—but the feelings elude you. It’s confusing, illogical, and it digs into your core.
The worst moments often occurred at 3 a.m., a time I dubbed “the Mad Money hour.” While my husband slept, I was wide awake, exclusively breastfeeding Lily as Jim Cramer rambled about stocks on the television. During those long nights, I often questioned my role as a mother and my overall life.
Thoughts of suicide crept in, starting as fleeting ideas—like jumping in front of a car—but soon became overwhelming. I would stand at red lights with Lily’s stroller, my back to oncoming traffic, contemplating how easy it would be to slip away. The thoughts grew darker, and I found myself making plans, grappling with the idea of pills as a possible escape. I was in crisis mode, feeling like a danger to both myself and Lily.
My eating habits spiraled downwards; meals became nonexistent. I picked at scraps or munched on cheese, losing weight rapidly. And through it all, the tears kept flowing. I cried over spilled water or a messy kitchen, and I cried simply because I was crying.
In November 2013, I finally admitted to myself and my husband that I was at my breaking point. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment—perhaps it was the cracked nipples or yet another cold cup of coffee—but I knew I needed help. I confessed my daily struggles and even shared my darkest thoughts that had never been spoken aloud.
I was diagnosed with postpartum depression in January 2014. This condition isolates you, making you feel utterly alone, and postpartum depression is no exception.
Now, with Lily being 20 months old, I can’t claim to be fully healed, but I’m on a better path. I’m in therapy and while I still have tough days, things have improved. My hair has grown back, too—though its color changes often as I experiment with shades from blonde to red to teal. It’s amusing to think how a simple haircut became a symbol of my journey.
I hold onto my hair as a reminder of the difficult times, and as messy as it gets, I can’t bring myself to cut it again. Maybe that’s the lesson for all mothers, especially those reading this through tear-filled eyes: hold on. Cherish whatever you have, because it does get better. Not perfect, but better, so just keep hanging on.
For more insight into the journey of motherhood, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination from Healthline. If you’re looking for helpful tools related to self-insemination, visit Make a Mom.
Summary
This article shares a candid account of the author’s struggle with postpartum depression after the birth of her daughter, Lily. It highlights the emotional turmoil, feelings of isolation, and moments of despair that accompany this condition. Yet, it concludes on a hopeful note, emphasizing that while recovery is an ongoing journey, it does improve with time and support.