I welcomed my daughter, Lily Grace, in January, just 16 months after having my son, Max. We had just begun to navigate the challenges of parenting two children, having sold our house and moved in with my parents for support. My husband, Jake, and my mother were both back in school, adding to the whirlwind of change in our lives.
For the first time after giving birth, I felt genuine joy. I had always struggled with the newborn phase, but this time felt different—“third time’s a charm,” I thought. However, that bliss was short-lived. By week two, our family faced a barrage of illnesses: two rounds of croup, the flu, stomach bugs, and another round of croup. As soon as one child recovered, the other would fall ill, and my anxiety escalated.
It wasn’t just typical sleep-deprived worry; I found myself scrubbing every surface in our home repeatedly, terrified that germs would find their way to my newborn. I avoided my older kids, opting to disinfect everything to the point of obsession. If they wanted to hug me, I felt compelled to shower immediately afterward or spray myself down with disinfectant. I spent sleepless nights cleaning doorknobs and checking monitors obsessively. Deep down, I recognized the irrationality of my actions, but I felt utterly powerless to stop them.
My days were filled with tears and an overwhelming sense of dread. I could barely eat—just a slice of apple or a cracker made it into my stomach. My mind raced uncontrollably, and I often felt like I was suffocating. Simple tasks, like changing a diaper, felt insurmountable and exhausting.
Noticing my erratic behavior, my husband and mother reached out for help. My mom contacted my OB, who suggested medication, but I was too far gone to accept assistance. I did confide in a couple of friends about my struggles—they were incredibly supportive, with one even dropping off care packages for the older kids, while another took me out for lunch. Despite their efforts, my condition continued to deteriorate.
Then, something shifted inside me. One morning, I woke up furious at the world and overwhelmed by life. I found myself unable to get out of bed to care for Lily, who cried in her crib for over an hour. That moment marked a turning point when I contemplated suicide for the first time in my life. It was then that I truly realized how dire my situation had become.
While I had experienced mild postpartum depression with my first two children, this felt entirely different. I urgently called Jake and my mother home. As I waited, I searched for information on postpartum depression online, but the advice I found—like going for a walk or connecting with friends—felt impossible as I struggled to even get out of bed.
The darkness enveloped me, making it hard to remember that brighter days were ahead. It felt as if I was trapped in a cave, watching the light fade away. The fight against my own mind left me terrified and exhausted.
When Jake arrived, we talked, and he helped me dispose of the pain medications I had been considering. The next morning, I was still filled with anger, but I followed our plan and went for a walk with Lily in her stroller. As I walked beside a busy road, doubts flooded my mind. I wondered why I was struggling despite having a supportive family. My inner critic told me I wasn’t cut out for motherhood, that I didn’t deserve my wonderful children.
In a moment of despair, I walked to the edge of the sidewalk, contemplating stepping into traffic. Just then, Lily began to cry. Her wails snapped me back to reality and pulled me from the brink. I raced to her, holding her close, and called Jake, admitting that we needed a more robust plan.
Together, my family took swift action. They reached out to professionals, and we all agreed that I required treatment. I resisted at first—feeling like a burden—but deep down, I knew I needed help. Jake, with tears in his eyes, told me, “Sara, I need you back. Our kids need you back.”
As I prepared to leave, I held Lily and apologized for everything she would have to endure. I reassured my son Max, using the analogy of the movie Inside Out to explain that I was going away to get help and would return stronger. My mother drove me to the treatment center, and I faced my fears.
Treatment was daunting. The initial days were filled with guilt and sadness, but I gradually learned that I needed to prioritize my own well-being. I connected with others facing similar struggles, and we supported each other through our darkest moments. I learned that mental illness is not a choice but a disease, rooted in a chemical imbalance that required treatment.
Eventually, I was discharged and went home to my children. The journey was far from over, with daily challenges and moments of despair still looming. However, I now had tools to cope. I see my therapist twice a week, focus on my health, and strive to be the best version of myself.
To anyone reading this who might feel lost and overwhelmed, know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE. If you’re experiencing similar feelings, I urge you to seek help. There’s no shame in acknowledging your struggles. It’s crucial to talk openly about postpartum depression, a condition that can feel isolating but is very real.
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Summary
My journey through postpartum anxiety was marked by intense germophobia and overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. After a series of illnesses in my family and an emotional breakdown, I sought help and underwent treatment. Though the path to recovery has been challenging, I now have the tools and support needed to navigate motherhood and mental health. Remember, seeking help is vital, and you are not alone in your struggles.