Please Read Before You Begin

Trigger Warning: This post contains personal reflections on prenatal and postpartum depression, postpartum anxiety, suicidal ideation, and intrusive thoughts. If you’re not in a place to read about those experiences right now, please consider skipping it (or saving it for later).

Get Support: If you or someone you love is in crisis, please visit postpartum.net for support. In the U.S., you can call 988 (the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) or text HOME to 741741 for free, confidential support. Your mental health matters—and you’re not alone.

Note: This is a long post. I chose to share it all in one place so no one feels stuck in the middle of the story. Take your time with it. Bookmark it. Come back when you’re ready. I’m grateful you’re here.

Introduction: The Story I (Sort of) Expected to Tell

I didn’t just expect to struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety. I knew they were coming.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself during pregnancy—too afraid to admit I was already consumed by something I couldn’t name. Instead of confronting the depression and anxiety I was living with, I started planning for the seemingly inevitable struggle that would come after my baby was born.

I’ve told parts of this story before—pregnancy was one of the hardest chapters of my life. I spent most of those nine months quietly drowning in guilt, dread, and shame—silently suffering through what I now know (and couldn’t admit then) was undiagnosed prenatal depression and anxiety. 

So by the time my due date approached, I was already bracing for the emotional storm I assumed was ahead. What I didn’t expect was that the storm wouldn’t hit all at once.

Because at first? I was okay. Better than okay, even.

I wasn’t overwhelmed with dread, sadness, or regret. Sure, I was tired—physically and emotionally drained—but motherhood fit me better than I expected. I felt love, growing more deeply with each day.

What I didn’t expect was how it would all unfold later—how the anxiety would creep in quietly and settle deep in my chest. How the grief—for what was and what would never be, for what I had given up and what I thought I had lost—would simmer beneath the surface. How the monotony and isolation of new parenthood would slowly chip away at my sense of self until, one day, I barely recognized the person in the mirror.

I didn’t expect the way it would sneak in slowly—then suddenly consume me months down the road.

Birth Trauma and the Hidden Aftershocks

Pregnancy wasn’t easy for me, and I knew parenthood would be hard. But birth? That experience left a mark I didn’t see coming.

My labor was fast and, on paper, relatively uneventful. But it was traumatic for me. The epidural I’d planned for—the only real birth plan I had—couldn’t be placed due to scar tissue from previous surgeries. I felt the urge to push while still sitting on the side of the table. Things were progressing too quickly. There wasn’t time to try placing the epidural again.

In a rush, all of my past trauma around those previous injuries came crashing in.

The speed at which it all unfolded, the physical intensity of a rapid labor, the loss of control—mentally, I couldn’t keep up with what was happening to my body. When my OB asked what position I wanted to push in, I froze, not knowing I would even have a choice. I didn’t feel prepared for any of this.

And then suddenly, just a few pushes later, he was here.

Meeting My Son

It wasn’t an instant bond of all-consuming love. It was a soft, curious, “Hi, who are you? Let me look at you” kind of moment. A gentle beginning.

I felt curious, protective, and bonded in a primal way. I didn’t feel like I truly knew him yet—not in the way I had always pictured a loving mother would, with that immediate sense of a deep connection. But I didn’t feel disconnected from him either. 

Still, that night, as my husband and son slept soundly nearby, I lay there wide awake, unable to stop the reel playing in my head. 

I wasn’t just recovering. I was caught in the unrelenting grip of trauma, stuck in a painful loop, reliving the birth, replaying the physical and emotional intensity of those moments, trying to make sense of it all. The speed. The intensity. The loss of control. The way my body had “let me down.” 

It was too much to try to process on my own. 

I’m so grateful for the postpartum nurse who sat with me in the dark, holding space for me, listening while I processed, validating what I was feeling. When I was finally ready to rest, she gave me the permission I needed to send my baby to the nursery for a few hours so I could get a solid stretch of sleep—a few hours to feel responsible for only myself. 

She was there the next night too. And when it came time to leave the hospital, I felt afraid. What would it be like without her? Without this team? On our own?

The Slow Creep of Anxiety and Disconnection

In the weeks that followed, I continued to be surprised by how okay I felt, pleasantly surprised by how much love was already there, how protective I felt, and the bond I could feel slowly growing. By the time my baby was two months old, I loved him so deeply it physically hurt—like my chest had to crack open to make room for the immensity of that love. 

It all felt steady and grounding, not depressing. But something still wasn’t right.

I continued having flashbacks to my birth. At night, I would check the locks on the doors—over and over again—fear living heavy in my chest. I didn’t really want to go anywhere. Instead, I craved the security of our four walls, our home.

I didn’t know it then, but I was experiencing postpartum anxiety—something I had never been able to name until a therapist gave me the words. That was anxiety? I had lived with that feeling for so long without knowing what to call it.

And then, slowly, the loneliness set in. The monotony. The loss of autonomy. The familiar ache I had felt during pregnancy crept back in. I was so glad I had decided to raise him, to be his mom—but I could feel myself disappearing into motherhood.

Losing Myself in Motherhood

I clung to whatever I could control—tracking wake windows, nailing down nap rhythms, trying to build some kind of routine. I was fiercely protective of our sleep because I knew, on some level, my mental health depended on it.

Each day, I lived for our skin-to-skin nap in the rocking chair. That hour or two of quiet closeness, the oxytocin release. As winter crept in around us and seamlessly faded into spring, this nap time often felt like the only time I could breathe. Other days, I sat there, clinging on to him while tears silently rolled down my face.

I kept coming back to the same thoughts: Why didn’t anyone tell me? There has to be a better way to prepare for all of this, a better way to support people through it.

Our New Normal

Just a year before, my plate was overflowing—a full-time job, part-time grad school, and a part-time internship. It was intense, but I was thriving. I had structure, purpose, and momentum. And now, six months into maternity leave, it felt like I was drowning.

With all that supposedly cleared off my plate, shouldn’t I have had more capacity? More time? 

Instead, I was somehow constantly behind. I had taken a leave from everything: school, work, my internship. All I had to do was take care of myself, my baby, our dog, and the house. But the days passed in a busy blur, and I could never quite explain what we did, why more didn’t get done, or why I felt so exhausted.

I felt like a shell of myself. Stripped of the titles and accomplishments that once gave me direction and value, my sense of worth, I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. Without work or a career, I was “just” a mom—and that word, just, haunted me.

I never pictured myself in this role. I saw it as something beautiful and important for other people—I just didn’t think it was right for me. But here I was.

My Breaking Point

Somewhere around 8 or 9 months postpartum, I hit my rock bottom.

I remember sitting on the floor of my son’s nursery, watching him play beside me. And instead of feeling joy or connection, I felt consumed by hopelessness. Life had let me down too many times. I had seen or felt many of the worst parts of life—pain, loss, injustice, heartbreak, hopelessness. 

The dreams I had to let go of. The many times I had been let down. The versions of myself I had to grieve.

I found myself wondering: Was this all there was, the only guarantee life had to offer? More pain? More disappointment? More grief?

And then came the darkest thought: If life was always going to let me down, what was the point?

I looked over at my baby, and instead of seeing a reason to live, all I could see was all the years of heartache he might one day face. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him walking through that pain alone, without me. I didn’t want to leave him behind—but I also didn’t want him to suffer.

I picked up the pillow beside me, gently held it near his face, as if we were playing a game. And I asked myself: Could I really do this? Could I do this, for both of us?

Something in me stirred then, a flicker of clarity: This is a moment.

I realized the thoughts I was having—the story in my head—wasn’t the full truth. This was just one side of the coin, one perspective. I couldn’t see the other side of the coin just yet, but I would. 

I realized I was stuck in a moment. One devastating, dangerous moment. If I could just get through it, I would eventually be able to see the broader story.

I lowered the pillow, and I held on. Eventually, I picked him up and left the room, aware of just how desperately I needed help.

The Turning Point

That day became my wake-up call. I had struggled with suicidal ideation in the past, and I knew now just how dangerously close to the edge I really was. I needed help. Not tomorrow. Not when it got worse. Now.

I leaned on my husband, sharing more openly. My mom came to stay with my son so we could get away for a long weekend to celebrate my 30th birthday—a few days to feel a little more like my old self and to experience the bittersweet ache of missing him. And I also started meeting regularly with a therapist who specialized in postpartum mental health, building a supportive foundation that I could lean on as I continued to heal.

In hindsight, I wish I had been brave enough to try medication. But I was scared. Past experiences had made me cautious, and the stakes felt too high. I didn’t want to risk spiraling further while we found the right solution. So I found a different, probably slower, path back to myself.

I started building something new—a life I could feel good about. Not in a polished way, but in a quiet, curious, hopeful way. At first, it wasn’t about work at all, even though work had always been a central part of my identity. Instead, it was about survival. 

I focused on the basics: sleep, nourishing meals, moving my body, and connection. I made therapy a priority and let people in. And even when it felt uncomfortable, I asked for help when I needed it.

And slowly, the light started finding its way back in.

Finding My Way Back to Myself

As I regained my footing, I leaned into the question that had echoed in my mind so many times in those early, uncertain months: Isn’t there a better way to prepare for this, to support people through it? I felt a deep pull to create the kind of care I had needed—I just didn’t know exactly what that would look like yet. I still had so much to learn, both personally and professionally, so I started there, throwing myself into certification programs, research, and coursework. Birth. Lactation. Postpartum. Identity. All of it.

By focusing on taking care of me and pouring energy into a project I felt passionate about, I started to feel like myself again. Not the old version of me. A new one. Still me in many ways, but changed.

Eventually, I even felt ready to have a second kid. Pregnant again, I found my way back to therapy. Determined to take a truly proactive approach, I didn’t wait this time. I established a relationship with my new therapist, and we met regularly throughout my pregnancy and that first year. 

But this time around, things were different for another reason, too. I had already felt the joy of parenting firsthand and rediscovered my strength and resilience. I had built the systems and support I needed. And this time, I wasn’t going in blind. I knew what to look out for. I didn’t just know how to ask for help, I was better at asking for and accepting it.

Maybe most importantly? I knew, at worst, I could get through the moments. Because I had done it before. The hardest moments would pass just as fleetingly as the sweet ones.

What I Wish I Had Known (And What I Want You to Know)

I wish I had known that postpartum depression and anxiety don’t always look the way we expect them to. They don’t always come on suddenly or right away.

Sometimes mental health struggles creep in quietly and settle slowly, so subtly that you don’t realize how bad it’s gotten until you’re in too deep to see a way out. Other times, they look like anger, or numbness, or perfectionism, or endless scrolling, or an overwhelming need to control. And sometimes they look like love—deep, aching love—but with a hollowed-out version of yourself holding it all.

I wish someone had reminded me that the lies depression tells can feel so convincing. That the stories anxiety spins can feel so real. That shame and fear of judgment are powerful silencers—and that naming what you’re going through can feel terrifying, but also deeply liberating.

If you’re in it right now, I want you to know:

• You are not broken.
• You are not a bad parent.
• You are not a burden.
• You are not alone.
• There is help out there.
• And it will get better with time and support.

There is so much cultural pressure to experience parenthood at the ends of the spectrum—to either be blissfully fulfilled or risk completely falling apart. But the truth is, most of us live in the middle. 

Parenthood is joy and grief. Magic and monotony. Expansion and loss. Love and rage. Fulfillment and emptiness. Sometimes all in the same hour.

I believe we’d all be better off if we made more space for that messy, complicated middle. If we stopped pretending it’s either/or and started saying out loud: it’s both/and. It’s all of it. 

And not only is that perfectly okay, but that’s life and what it means to be human.

Why I Do This Work (And How It Changed Me)

You don’t have to turn your pain into purpose. But this work—the work I get to do now—was born from the cracks in my own story.

When I started rebuilding after my breakdown, I knew I couldn’t go back to who I was before, and I didn’t want to. I had to figure out who I was now, and that included a new path, a new passion.

So, I started training in everything I wish I had known the first time around—childbirth, lactation, postpartum care, parent coaching, sleep, matrescence, rites of passage, transition theory, and of course, perinatal mental health. 

I have always wanted to understand the full picture, not just for myself, but so I could be the support I had needed back then.

This work is personal. I show up for my clients the way I wish someone had shown up for me—with honesty, warmth, and zero judgment. With space to feel all of it. With reminders that you don’t have to be perfect. That your needs matter too. That your identity still exists underneath the diapers and dishes. That you are the expert in your own life, the hero in your own story.

Every parent’s story is different. But if you’ve ever felt lost, burnt out, ambivalent, or like you’re disappearing under the weight of it all—I see you.

Keep going, yes. But don’t just keep going. Find your people, your community, your village to help you find the light and keep reminding you that the next moment might be lighter.

If You’re Struggling Right Now…

Please don’t wait until you’re in crisis to ask for help. If you’re already there, don’t wait any longer.

Reach out to a friend. A partner. A therapist. A coach. Your OB or midwife. Postpartum Support International. Someone you trust. Let them in. 

Let them remind you that you matter. That you don’t have to feel this way forever. And you don’t have to figure it out on your own.

If you need support, here are some resources to start with:

• Postpartum Support International – Call 1-800-944-4773 (4PPD) or text “HELP” to 800-944
• National Maternal Mental Health Hotline – 1-833-943-5746
• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call 988 or text HOME to 741741

Sharing this story has been years in the making

If you’re still here, thank you. Writing this wasn’t easy—but I believe in the power of storytelling. If even one person feels a little less alone, a little more hopeful, or a little more understanding after reading this, it was worth it.

If any part of my story resonated with you, I hope you’ll carry this with you: This is a moment. This is not your whole story. It will pass, and you are not alone.

Please feel free to share this with someone who might need it, or just let it sit with you for a while. Feeling called to reach out? Send me a message—I’d love to hear from you. We don’t have to carry these stories alone.