Postpartum anxiety took so much from me. Reflecting on the early months of my children’s lives fills me with bittersweet emotions. Those moments are tinged with a unique joy, yet they are overshadowed by the profound darkness I kept locked inside—a burden I chose not to share. My children are now six and three, and even now, I pen this narrative through a haze of sorrow.
Postpartum anxiety robbed me of the chance to fully embrace those precious early days with my sons, consumed by unrelenting worry. This was not just typical concern that many new mothers face—this was something far more consuming. For months, I endured paralyzing anxiety that triggered a physical reaction within me. Many nights were spent awake, timing the breaths of my baby with my phone’s stopwatch, repeating the process multiple times throughout the night.
This anxiety left me incapacitated. When my second child struggled to feed as a newborn, I found myself sobbing on the bathroom floor, torn apart by the thought of how I would cope if he never began to eat. I had somehow convinced myself that my anxiety was a protective measure—how could anything bad occur if I was on constant high alert? I never reached out for help, fearful that admitting my fears would lead others to think I harbored harmful thoughts toward my child.
A few times, I sought comfort from my husband during my most intense panic episodes, but he remained unaware of the depth of my daily struggles. I deceived not just him, but also my family, friends, and healthcare providers. No one had any inkling of the turmoil within my mind.
During the day, I could mask my postpartum anxiety effectively. As long as the sun was shining and life bustled around me, I clung to the hope that my healthy baby would be okay. I never revealed the terrifying thoughts that haunted me to my doctor, my husband, or my closest friends.
Nighttime was my adversary. After my husband would fall asleep, and my children were settled in bed, I would be overcome with dread. I tried to steal a few moments of rest, but my mind was bombarded with vivid and distressing mental images of what could go wrong. On the rare occasions I did manage to fall asleep, I would wake in a panic, terrified that someone had entered our home to snatch my baby away. I often found myself checking on my oldest son, sometimes bringing him into our room just to feel secure while I watched over him from a distance.
Instead of relishing the time with my babies, I held onto those moments as if they were fleeting. This wasn’t gratitude—it was a manifestation of an illness, and I longed for help.
When the sunlight broke through the curtains, I would finally feel a slight sense of relief, often falling asleep just moments before my husband awoke for work, blissfully unaware of my internal battles. Postpartum anxiety robbed me of my mental well-being and those invaluable early months—twice.
Looking back, the joy of those days is interwoven with the threads of terror that my own mind inflicted upon me. Each time, I suffered for about six months before the fog began to lift. I can’t fully explain it; I just gradually started to feel like myself again. While my “self” still grapples with generalized anxiety disorder, I manage it better now, primarily during the postpartum period.
Now, as I find myself pregnant again, I am filled with anticipation for this new addition, yet I also dread the looming shadow of anxiety that feels all but certain to return. I refuse to endure that suffering again. This is my final chance to savor those early months with a newborn, and I owe it to my two older children to be the rational mother they deserve.
I made a promise to myself to seek help this time. I confided in my husband, and for the first time, I saw the pain on his face understanding the severity of my past struggles. I’ve also been proactive with my OB, discussing my history early in the pregnancy. He has assured me that we will address my mental health needs immediately after the birth, planning follow-up appointments to ensure I receive the support I need.
Postpartum anxiety has already taken too much from me. While I can’t guarantee perfection this time, I refuse to silently endure without fighting for my mental health. I want to enjoy this experience, not just survive it. For more insights on navigating pregnancy and postpartum health, check out this excellent resource from Healthline.
In conclusion, I won’t hide my truth any longer. I deserve support, and I am ready to take charge of my mental health this time around.