Menu Lifestyle
By Emily J.
Updated: Sep. 20, 2023
Originally Published: Sep. 20, 2023
Trigger warning: suicide, postpartum depression
Happy ten months, my precious baby boy. As we approach the milestone of your first birthday, I reflect on how it has nearly been a year since I walked into the hospital for my scheduled c-section, just like any other routine appointment. It feels surreal to think back to that moment when I lay on the operating table, watching the medical team engage in casual chatter with my partner as they lifted you from my body. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a year since I gazed at you, feeling a whirlwind of emotions: love, excitement, fear, guilt — was there even a hint of regret? It’s been almost a year since I brought you home and struggled to create a bond. Almost a year since your father had to lift me off the floor night after night, reassuring me that things would improve. Almost a year since I realized we had passed the infamous “baby blues” after that two-week mark. Almost a year since I was bombarded with messages like “He’s so perfect” and “You must be so in love,” all while feeling like a complete imposter. Almost a year since I first contemplated how peaceful it might be to just not exist.
Writing this is incredibly challenging. A few nights ago, I expressed to my husband the desire to contribute to the conversation surrounding postpartum depression (PPD) and postpartum anxiety (PPA), and he suggested I share my story on social media to help break the stigma. Initially, I hesitated to share such personal and desperate experiences publicly, but here we are. Despite the growing awareness of PPD and PPA, the whispers of “What kind of mother…?” still linger.
There is no “that kind of mother” — we are all capable of struggling. Tragically, suicide is one of the leading causes of death among perinatal women.
I never thought I would be at risk. I wasn’t “that kind of mother.” I had already navigated the early stages of motherhood with my first child, and everything seemed to flow smoothly; I exercised regularly, enjoyed a strong marriage, and maintained fulfilling friendships. Our family was financially secure, we traveled, and I even found a church that resonated with me. Our second child was deeply desired, and I never imagined he would enter a world filled with anything but joyful chaos. But this time was markedly different.
My son was a challenging baby. He suffered from silent reflux, rarely slept, and would cry for hours without consolation. He rejected his bottle and had severe diaper rash. Yet, he was a sweet, innocent baby, and I couldn’t understand why I was struggling. I became fixated on the idea of being the perfect mother — the one who effortlessly manages it all. I went through the motions of daily life, but inside, I felt detached, as if I were observing someone else live my life. My suffering was accompanied by a deep sense of shame.
Three weeks after my son’s birth, I first fantasized about stepping into traffic. I imagined a crane falling on me as I walked beneath it. I pictured what a kitchen knife could do to my arteries. During those desperate days, thoughts of death began to invade every hour. I realized I needed to take action or I wouldn’t survive to see his first birthday. Finally, I confided in my husband and my sister, and I sought help.
The journey to recovery wasn’t straightforward, but my path out of PPD was less arduous than for some. With intensive talk therapy and medication, I emerged from the fog much sooner than I anticipated. Sharing stories with other parents was invaluable: one friend described a year-long battle with crippling anxiety that forced her to leave her job; another expressed regret about feeling she had disrupted her family’s life by bringing home her second child; yet another required inpatient treatment after experiencing postpartum psychosis with her first baby. These women, whom I admired for their intelligence and strength, were silently suffering. I came to realize that it’s okay — even normal — to struggle. Whether it’s a brief period of the baby blues (affecting up to 80% of new mothers), a descent into PPD/PPA (impacting 10-20% of new mothers), or just a few rough days (something we all face), there is no shame in admitting it.
Some days remain tougher than others, but I’ve finally rediscovered joy — a feeling I feared I’d lost forever. There is no “that kind of mother” — we all share this experience. Suicide is a leading cause of death in perinatal women, with one in seven women experiencing PPD and up to 17% facing PPA. These are serious medical conditions that often require treatment. It’s essential to check in on the new mothers in your life, and above all, offer support without judgment. That is the last thing she needs. For more resources on this topic, consider visiting IVF Babble, an excellent source for pregnancy and home insemination information.
In summary, my journey through postpartum depression opened my eyes to the silent struggles many mothers face. The importance of sharing our stories cannot be understated, as it fosters understanding and breaks the stigma surrounding mental health in motherhood. If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out for help.