Sitting in the cozy rocking chair in my newborn son’s nursery, I was overcome with tears. The sadness washed over me in waves, and I couldn’t quite grasp why. I gazed down at my beautiful baby, feeding him while my heart swelled with love, yet I felt so disconnected from myself. It was as if I were observing my life from a distance, looking at someone I barely recognized.
Just a week prior, I had been snapping at my partner and losing my temper with my daughter, Jess, far too often. I found myself getting upset over trivial matters, like a dish left in the sink or my partner forgetting to bring me a drink. I felt overwhelmed when Jess sought my attention while I was trying to manage the chaos of a new baby.
Recovering from a second C-section, I was in pain and wanted to retreat from the world. My days were filled with monotony: feed the baby, change him, drop Jess off at school, attend a Bible study, tackle work emails, and maybe enjoy a dinner or shower. On the surface, it all seemed manageable, but inside, I was crumbling.
Outwardly, I appeared fine. I smiled, laughed, and shared adorable photos of my kids on social media. But internally, I felt like I was slowly disappearing, and I didn’t know how to stop it. So, I cried—often, and loudly.
I initially attributed my feelings to the challenges of adjusting to life with two children, compounded by Jess’s struggles to embrace her new role as a big sister. While she adored her baby brother, the idea of using “kind and gentle hands” seemed lost on her.
Then came a moment that changed everything. While waiting in line at a drive-thru, chatting with a close friend, I answered her typical question, “How are you?” with enthusiastic falsehood. She immediately called me out, saying, “That’s not true. You’re not okay, are you?” The floodgates opened, and I found myself sobbing on the phone.
Her reassurances—that what I was experiencing was common and okay—were the lifeline I needed. We spent a long time discussing my feelings until I finally admitted, “I think I have postpartum depression.” Saying those words was both a relief and terrifying. The weight of that acknowledgment was heavy, but it was also freeing.
It took a friend’s concern to help me confront the reality of my situation. Until that moment, I had been battling these feelings alone, unaware of what I was truly experiencing. That evening, after the kids were in bed, I shared my thoughts with my partner, saying, “I think I’m struggling with postpartum depression and anxiety.” His response stunned me: “I know.”
His understanding was a gut punch. How could he have known without saying anything? Yet I realized that I was placing undue blame on someone who cared deeply for me and simply didn’t know how to help. We were both navigating uncharted territory.
After many tears and heartfelt conversations, I scheduled an appointment with my midwife, who was familiar with my history and could guide me. I remember filling out the postpartum depression screening form, tears streaming down my face as I tried to answer the questions.
When my midwife entered, I cried and expressed my frustration at the ridiculousness of the questions. She chuckled gently and wrapped me in a warm embrace, assuring me that what I felt was entirely normal. She reminded me that I was a good mom and that there were resources available to help me.
We discussed various options, and I decided against medication initially, having had a challenging experience with it in my past. Instead, we explored alternatives like therapy, exercise, and emotional support through essential oils. She even prescribed medication that I could choose to fill if I wanted to, which was comforting in itself.
During this time, I leaned heavily on my partner and a close friend. I hadn’t shared my struggles with many people; in fact, some of my closest family members will learn about it through this very post. Writing helps me process my feelings, even when I’m not quite ready to discuss them openly.
Fast forward nearly nine months, and while I’m in a much better place than I was during those early days, I still grapple with anxiety. I can still find myself snapping at my kids or feeling overwhelmed by stress. Some days are challenging, leaving me wishing to hide away, while other days are filled with joy, laughter, and connection with my family.
Through this journey, I’ve learned so much about myself. Parenting is a series of trials and errors, and I’m learning to accept that perfection is unattainable. I remind myself daily that I am loved, I am a good partner, and I am a great mom. It’s not about being flawless; it’s about recognizing my struggles and facing them head-on.
I share my experience not to seek sympathy or portray myself as a hero. I’m not looking for solutions or advice; I simply want to articulate my journey in hopes that someone else might find comfort in knowing they are not alone. There is light at the end of the tunnel, and I assure you that things can get better. Acknowledging that I have postpartum depression and anxiety doesn’t diminish my love for my children or my role as a mother—it’s a part of my journey that I am determined to overcome.
And to all the mothers out there who might be facing similar challenges, remember this: you are an incredible mom. You are beautiful, cherished, and capable of overcoming these obstacles.
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In summary, postpartum depression is a challenging experience, but it doesn’t define a mother’s love or abilities. Embracing your struggles and seeking help can lead to healing and growth, and you don’t have to face it alone.