When my daughter arrived, I was grappling with the aftermath of a traumatic birth, and she had to spend time in the NICU. For the first 16 hours of her life, we were separated. When we were finally united, I was brimming with anticipation for the rush of love and joy I had envisioned. But as I held my daughter for the first time, awe washed over me yet those anticipated feelings never materialized.
I dismissed it and we headed home. Days passed in a haze, and soon, the darkness crept in. I cried often and felt an overwhelming sadness, but I kept hearing that it was normal, just the “baby blues.” On a particularly tough Thursday, I found myself paralyzed by the responsibility of caring for my newborn. Knowing that this fragile little being depended on me, a woman who felt utterly broken, was suffocating. I couldn’t pinpoint the moment my breakdown occurred; I still can’t. I pumped and nursed when I could muster the strength, while my supportive partner, Matt, took on the primary caregiver role.
That Thursday marked a turning point. I opened up to Matt about my darkest thoughts. I confessed that I didn’t want this life, and if this was my only option, I didn’t want to go on living. I described in detail how I planned to end it all. The look on his face was one of sheer horror. He quickly arranged for someone to look after our daughter and whisked me to the doctor’s office.
After assessments including my height, weight, and blood pressure, I filled out a survey honestly, revealing my struggles. I told them I didn’t want to harm my baby, nor had I hurt anyone, but I did fear for my own safety. I curled up on the exam table, and my midwife entered, tears in her eyes. She held me and offered compassion before diagnosing me with Postpartum Depression.
The following weeks were a blur of tears, medications, and doctors’ visits. I fought against the voice whispering that I didn’t want to live. Gradually, I regained a semblance of control over my thoughts, but being in the same room as my daughter remained a challenge. I would gently brush her soft hair and kiss her cheeks, feeling a wave of failure that took my breath away. It’s a heartbreaking reality to feel emotionally distant from your own child. In desperation, I began searching for ways to connect with her despite my struggles.
What an odd thing to Google, but what I found was babywearing. This ancient practice is instinctive for mothers wanting to keep their babies close. Women around the world wear their infants for various reasons, and the outcome is the same—a secure, attached child who learns that their needs will be met while also understanding that the world exists beyond them. Babywearing is not just a practical tool; it can also be a means of healing.
I immersed myself in research. With Matt by my side ready to assist whenever I felt overwhelmed, I unearthed the Moby wrap I had received as a gift (thanks to my friend Lisa) and practiced using it on my cat.
When my daughter was three weeks old, I wrapped her for the first time. It was an electrifying experience. Although I was nervous, having my hands free felt liberating. For the first time, as I held her close without physically gripping her, she nestled into me and drifted off to sleep. Despite my ongoing battle, this moment ignited a flicker of hope within me—a glimmer of light at the end of my dark tunnel.
As often as I could manage, I would wrap my daughter and carry her with me throughout the day. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, Matt would step in to take over basic care. Yet, each time I wrapped her up, my heart swelled with hope. The Moby wrap was filling the void left by my struggles. It helped me focus my mind while also fulfilling my need for physical closeness with my baby—a bridge connecting my fractured self with my daughter.
On the day I was finally able to care for my daughter, I treated myself to my first woven wrap. It was a personal milestone, akin to winning an Olympic medal. This new obsession allowed me to improve that bridge between my healing mind and heart. Four weeks had passed since I first wrapped my baby without panic, and as I carefully positioned her in this new wrap, she looked up at me and smiled.
That smile opened the floodgates of hope. In that moment, I truly became her mother. Thanks to babywearing, what some might see as just a convenience transformed into a lifesaving practice for me. My wraps, which some dismiss as “expensive pieces of cloth” or “odd contraptions,” gave me the opportunity to feel my daughter close while I navigated my emotional turmoil.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with experiencing Postpartum Depression, except for the feelings it evokes and how society often responds. You are not a bad mother, and you didn’t bring this upon yourself. Everyone has their unique coping mechanisms—this was mine, and it profoundly changed me.
So to any mother facing postpartum challenges, to those with weary arms, or those longing for normalcy—embrace babywearing. You never know how it may transform your journey.