As a writer, expressing my thoughts on paper has always felt vital. Yet for months, I found myself staring at a blank screen, cursor blinking against a stark white backdrop, unable to articulate the truth: I felt utterly empty. It was as if I were trapped in a deep, dark pit, with only a faint glimmer of light above reminding me that there was a way out. The stone walls felt insurmountable, and the ground was covered in thick mud that weighed me down.
For what seemed like an eternity, I lay in that pit, the cool earth numbing some of my pain before it turned into a suffocating mire. I attempted to climb out at times, only to slip back into despair again and again. There were moments when I thought I could reach the top, but my grief was too heavy, and I would tumble back down. I hit the ground hard—so hard that I thought I might not survive. I wanted to disappear, feeling as if the sky above me was devoid of light.
But just like the night sky, there are always pinpricks of hope, little reminders that light exists somewhere and that we are never truly alone.
After the birth of my son, Oliver, I experienced what many call the “baby blues.” Following the arrival of my now 8-year-old twins, Lily and Ethan, I was merely relieved to have them home after a challenging NICU stay. I rediscovered my passion for running and embraced life as a triathlete, completing several races, including a half-marathon.
Then Oliver was born. Exhaustion set in. Despite breastfeeding and maintaining a healthy lifestyle, I found it impossible to shed the 30 pounds I had gained. I struggled to run, though I managed to finish the New York City Marathon just four months postpartum. My emotional state fluctuated; I often felt down, but I also convinced myself I was “okay.” I was busy homeschooling the twins, coaching youth cross country, and juggling various roles as a bereavement doula and childbirth educator. I thought that keeping busy meant I was fine.
With the arrival of my youngest son, Jake, I noticed familiar signs of emotional turmoil but brushed them aside. I felt the need to portray strength, having overcome past pregnancy losses and difficulties. After a challenging C-section, I returned home just 36 hours later, feeling like Superwoman. But the relentless cycle of nursing, sleepless nights, and the challenges of caring for a toddler weighed heavily on me. Visits to the doctor revealed the addition of rheumatoid arthritis to my existing Hashimoto’s diagnosis, and I convinced myself that my physical ailments were the root of my distress.
However, the emotional upheaval was hard to ignore. Navigating life with a child on the autism spectrum and another who battled anxiety was a constant challenge. The struggles of parenting a baby while managing homeschooling and household responsibilities felt overwhelming. I had stopped running, stopped writing—essentially, I had lost myself.
Just before Jake turned eight months old, I felt like I was making strides to climb out of my pit when I suddenly crashed back down. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that broke me, but when it happened, I felt utterly defeated.
In my darkest moment, I devised a plan. I placed Jake and Oliver down for a nap and instructed my husband to take the twins out. I grabbed a bottle of pain medication from my C-section and wrote a note. My intention was to take the pills and lie down with Jake. As I prepared, my hands trembled, spilling water as I attempted to soothe my nerves. I finally managed to open the bottle, but just then, my husband walked in, having forgotten something for the twins.
In a panic, I shoved the bottle away, and when he left, I reached for it again. Just as I was about to cross a line, Jake cried out. I rushed to comfort him, and in that moment, looking into his bright blue eyes, I was flooded with emotion. I realized how much I would miss if I went through with my plan. I thought of all the moments I could miss with my children—their laughter, their discoveries, their love.
My postpartum depression didn’t manifest in wanting to harm my children; instead, it made me feel inadequate. I felt like a shadow of the mother I aspired to be, believing I could never measure up. I was a terrible parent, a failure. I wore a mask, volunteering and hosting events while internally I was barely holding on.
When my husband returned, I finally opened up about my struggles. There was no judgment—just understanding. He held me as I unleashed my fears and feelings of worthlessness. Instead of dismissing my emotions, he offered love and asked how he could support me.
Things didn’t magically improve overnight, but with each passing day, I began to heal. I still make mistakes and face challenges, but I’m learning to be kinder to myself and to appreciate the small victories. I’m slowly climbing out of the pit of despair, and although the journey is gradual, I now have hope.
I feel as if I’ve awakened from a long slumber, and I’m determined to savor each day. If you suspect you may be experiencing postpartum depression or find yourself struggling with overwhelming feelings, know that help is available. Resources such as this site and this one provide valuable information on home insemination and pregnancy support. Additionally, Women’s Health offers excellent resources for understanding infertility and related issues. Remember, you are not just a mom; you are a person deserving of care and support. If you’re in need, please seek help—don’t wait until it’s too late.
Summary
This story chronicles a woman’s struggle with postpartum depression after the birth of her children. She reflects on her feelings of inadequacy and despair, ultimately finding hope and support from her husband. Her journey highlights the importance of seeking help and recognizing one’s worth beyond motherhood.