It was a sizzling 97 degrees when I went into labor, anxiously waiting on a subway platform for the uptown train to the hospital. I wasn’t taken aback; I had tried everything to induce labor: devouring an entire pineapple and walking nearly two miles (only pausing once for a refreshing iced tea). I even explored nipple stimulation and self-pleasure. At 39 weeks, during our fifth heat wave of that summer, I was more than ready for the pregnancy chapter of my life to close so I could step into motherhood.
The hospital was wonderfully cool, a welcome surprise for anyone who has endured a summer pregnancy. After 34 grueling hours of labor, my gratitude for that chilled air was immense. Yet, my thoughts quickly shifted to my newborn daughter, as I worried about our sweltering apartment, far too warm for a tiny baby.
In our two-bedroom space, we had two air conditioning units—one in the living room and another in the bedroom—but that didn’t alleviate the discomfort. The sun poured into our daughter’s room during the morning and set in the kitchen by evening. Unless you were directly in front of a unit, the heat was unbearable. I often found myself wandering the apartment in just my nursing bra and underwear, a hospital-grade maxi pad in place, drenched in sweat. Looking back, I can’t say for certain whether it was the oppressive heat or the overwhelming reality of having my baby with me for the first time, but I cried—often. It was an instinctive release, not necessarily stemming from sadness or loneliness, but rather an uncontrollable flood of tears that came multiple times a day.
Understanding Postpartum Depression
Postpartum depression (PPD) is a specific type of depression that impacts women after childbirth. It can manifest in various ways, including feelings of sadness, fatigue, disrupted sleep and eating patterns, diminished sex drive, and heightened emotions such as anger and anxiety.
While some symptoms seemed typical of new motherhood—like fatigue and sleepless nights—others were hard to overlook. My anxiety seemed to peak on weekdays, especially just before my partner headed off to work. I found myself sobbing uncontrollably as he walked down the hall, even before the deadbolt clicked into place. I cried over spilled water, cold coffee, a messy kitchen, and even when my cat had an accident. I cried simply for crying. Eventually, those tears morphed into frustration, and I felt anger creeping in over trivial matters: a dirty floor, a fussy baby, or a partner who could leave the house while I was stuck at home, deep in a sea of diapers and spit-up.
I struggled to find small distractions. Turning on the television offered a brief respite, breaking the suffocating silence that surrounded me. I could manage basic tasks like using the bathroom and checking the mail, but everything felt overwhelming.
Determined to take daily walks regardless of the weather, I shielded my daughter from direct sunlight with canopies—one from her infant carrier and another from the stroller—while I faced the elements. They say sunlight can help alleviate depression, but I can’t recall it making a difference for me.
My memories of those early days are hazy, marked only by an odd sunburn on the back of my neck, the taste of iced coffee, and my disdain for Foodtown, our local grocery store. Despite its cleanliness compared to many Brooklyn bodegas, it still left much to be desired. I convinced myself that my visits were for the cool air, but I secretly hoped someone would notice my struggle and offer guidance. I was trying to escape the confines of my home and the heaviness I felt within myself.
Having a history of depression, I recognized the signs but kept pushing through, believing that if I just kept going, I could conquer this phase. I should be enjoying motherhood. I should feel happiness. “Just snap out of it,” I told myself. Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the answer.
I navigated my daughter’s first year as though I were underwater—like keeping my eyes open in a heavily chlorinated pool. I fought back tears while she munched on Cheerios, butternut squash, and my breast milk. I wept when she smiled, sat, stood, and crawled. I cried when she uttered “mama.” In my mind, I wasn’t a mama; real mamas loved their children unconditionally and reveled in the experience. I felt I was failing her, unworthy of the title.
One of my darkest moments arrived after an exhausting day. My daughter was teething and inconsolable, and nothing I tried worked. In a moment of desperation, I offered her my breast. She latched on briefly, then released, returning to her wailing state. I stared blankly at the freshly painted closet door before me, tears streaming down my cheeks as I rocked her. In a moment of darkness, I envisioned holding her too tightly, squeezing until her cries ceased and her body went limp. I jolted back to reality, safely placing her in her crib before collapsing onto the floor of our hallway, knees drawn to my chest, sobbing. I pounded the polished wooden floors with my palms until they were red and swollen, crying until my throat felt raw. My baby wailed in her crib while I muffled my own cries into a towel from the bathroom. It was then that I wished for death; it was then that I understood I needed help.
Finding Hope and Healing
Yet, here I am, still alive. I am fortunate to have sought help and held on. Even two years later, I can feel my defenses rising with the warmer weather: sweating brings back memories of crying, and crying reminds me of despair. I struggle to appreciate the heat, loathing the sensation of my knees sticking together or peeling myself off plastic furniture. However, instead of resisting, I set my thermostat to a comfortable 76 degrees, slip into shorts and sunscreen, and take my daughter to the park where we chase ducks and pick flowers under the sun.
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Summary
This piece chronicles my battle with postpartum depression after the birth of my daughter during a sweltering summer. The narrative details the overwhelming feelings of sadness, anxiety, and anger that colored my early experiences of motherhood. Despite the darkness, I ultimately sought help and learned to embrace life with my daughter.