I think it’s time we had an open and honest conversation about this quiet monster many mothers face.
I was diagnosed with postpartum depression at my six-week checkup. I remember being handed a piece of paper to fill out before the appointment and as I sat in the lobby surrounded by strangers for the first time ever someone, actually something, was asking me how I really felt.
Was I more sad than I thought I’d be? ✔ Yes I was.
Did I feel hopeless? ✔ Yes on occasion.
Did I think that somewhere in between the 30th time of waking to feed a screaming baby and trying to remind myself to pee more than once because my bladder had lost all feeling that I had lost all sense of identity? ✔ Yes I did. Seriously, who is this person who can’t just pee?
The nurse took me back, looked over my survey and said, “Well how are you? How’s being a mom?” I cried. I broke down. I was out of the mommy bubble and I felt safe in saying that I loved my daughter more than life itself but I just was drowning. Motherhood was not everything I had expected. She hugged me and told me that she too was that way after her first. Someone finally acknowledged what I had been guessing... there’s a little bit of darkness in the light of becoming a mom.
That darkness, or what doctors would call postpartum depression, was briefly touched on at maybe two appointments. Perhaps I was handed a pamphlet I ignored ― let’s be honest, when I left the hospital I was handed a folder full of papers and that one was most likely tossed aside. After all, it had nothing to do with my new baby but dealt with me, and who cared about me?
“The nurse took me back, looked over my survey and said, 'Well how are you? How’s being a mom?' I cried. I broke down.”
It was like one of those things you learn in high school health and nobody ever acknowledges personally dealing with, so it couldn’t actually be something people have. It was a brushed off topic, mentioned but with no weight. We hear labor is hard, sure, and one too may times the line “you’ll never sleep again.” We don’t hear that you could sit at the kitchen table and cry because you forgot you should shower and yet again your husband came home to a mess with no dinner.
Perhaps the line “your life will change forever” is the blanket statement that is supposed to cover feeling like you’re screwing it up all the time? How many questionnaires are we handed in our lives that we blindly fill out so we can go home? How many women just check the “everything is a-friggin-okay” box on that impersonal paper?
I refuse to accept that as mothers this is all we get. That is bullshit. So, here’s my personal definition, because perhaps like me someone out there is uneducated and could use a little help. One website defined PPD as “Depression that occurs after childbirth...” thanks Captain Obvious, how helpful. Postpartum depression is a little different for everyone, and I can’t speak for all woman who have experienced it, but here’s what it was for me:
“How many women just check the 'everything is a-friggin-okay' box on that impersonal paper?”
When I was little I used to shut the basement lights off and race up the stairs feeling that invisible monster right against my ankles. So close that if I didn’t run upstairs into the light, the monster I’d created in my head would get me. That’s what depression is to me. I feel it constantly breathing down my neck, just one step behind me, constantly making me stumble as I run to keep one step ahead. It keeps me up at night even though perhaps I should be sleeping because you know, new baby. I question my capabilities as a mom and think that I don’t love her enough... she deserves more than what I’m doing. She deserves more than those dirty dishes I meant to get to but didn’t and more than a mother who cries every time she’s in the shower because WHO AM I NOW????
“I feel [depression] constantly breathing down my neck, just one step behind me, constantly making me stumble as I run to keep one step ahead.”
Then, there’s the guilt. The guilt I feel for feeling this way and the guilt I feel for thinking about the woman I was before. How can I think about her? She didn’t have this precious baby... does that mean I want to be her again? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Sometimes it’s just this tinge I feel, it’s breathing on my neck but I can just keep walking. Sometimes, the worst of times, it engulfs me and I struggle to hold onto the light of being a mom. I struggle to keep reminding myself that my husband loves me even if I didn’t shave my armpits because keeping the baby happy was all I could do today. I worry that the woman I am now, the mess he sees on occasion when I can’t hide it, isn’t enough for him or our child, because in truth I don’t always like her all the much either. She can be quite stinky, and the shit she says sometimes? Oh gosh that woman is something else.
Nobody once told me that having a child meant losing yourself in a way. They told me it was a blessing, a miracle, that a baby is the best thing in the world. Sure, being a mother is beautiful/amazing and my daughter crushes my heart with the amount of love I feel for her, but when I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the woman I see looking out my heart still aches. The love I feel for her doesn’t take away the pain I feel sometimes too, and we don’t say it enough, but that’s okay. Some days there’s more darkness than light in motherhood. Some nights by the third or fourth wakeup its okay to look at your husband and silently debate punching him in the head because he’s still sleeping. You don’t have to love every blow out diaper ― just cry along with your child about them (if they can scream about shit, so can you).
“Some days there’s more darkness than light in motherhood. Some nights by the third or fourth wakeup its okay to look at your husband and silently debate punching him in the head because he’s still sleeping.”
All these feelings and more are okay. You’re not less of a mother. Having PPD doesn’t mean I can’t be a FANTASTIC mother, but it does mean that some days all I’ve accomplished is mothering. It does mean that on occasion I look like Cousin It from not shaving, and I’ll cry about it because my showers are so rushed I keep forgetting. It does mean I’ll call my mom at random times and ask her to tell me I’m doing this right. Wake her up at 1 a.m. ― this is what she signed up for, even if you’re now 24. I’d rather those moments happen than ever let my daughter believe she has to suffer alone.
Needing help, needing a break, doesn’t make me weak. It means I’m coping with one of the biggest life changes I’ve ever experienced and I’m finding ways to handle my postpartum depression. I’m helping myself see more light because at the end of the day my daughter needs to see the light in her mother, not the darkness, and she doesn’t even care that I don’t always shave.
“Having PPD doesn’t mean I can’t be a FANTASTIC mother, but it does mean that some days all I’ve accomplished is mothering.”
We don’t say these things enough because moms are supposed to be strong and grounded. Women are built to be mothers, so how could they ever have a hard time coping, right? Wrong. You carry a human for 40 weeks, change your diet, your lifestyle, and your future plans ― then give birth to it, change everything once more and tell me that you don’t come out a little shellshocked.
Why was I never told more about postpartum depression? Why did I spend weeks questioning my love for my child and my ability to parent? Why did I spend a single night crying and wondering who I am now that my whole world has changed? Maybe it’s because there’s this stigma that depression makes you less, maybe mothers aren’t comfortable coming forward. Or perhaps it’s because until recently mental health wasn’t talked about all that much. Who knows. But it ends here. You are more than the darkness. You are everything your child needs. You are not alone. Most importantly, you are not less because you have PPD.
I’ll let you in on a little secret we don’t tell pregnant women: the woman you are when you get pregnant is not the same woman who walks in to deliver that baby many weeks later. You will change after giving birth, spending that first week alone with baby, and continue to change as the baby grows. You won’t find that girl you were before you became a mom. She’s gone. That is okay. It’s also okay to mourn her. She was probably a lot of fun. She probably loved to laugh at inappropriate jokes, could play flippy cup really well, and didn’t have to care about being up until 3 a.m. doing stupid stuff.
“The woman you are when you get pregnant is not the same woman who walks in to deliver that baby many weeks later.”
You do find yourself, the new you, at random moments. You’ll find that now that girl is the light of someone’s world and everything a tiny little human needs. If you’re struggling to find yourself, start there. Start in the face of your new baby. I can also tell you that seven months later my PPD and I have come to terms more. I know when I have met my limit, and while my husband doesn’t always understand I feel more comfortable being honest with him because he loves me and he loves the mother I am. Now, I can remember that there are days I may not make it out of the basement because my invisible monster caught me, but there’s a light down there, and all I have to do is reach over to switch it on.
If you or someone you know needs help, call1-800-273-8255 for the . Outside of the U.S., please visit the
