“She’s an absolute darling!” A stranger exclaimed at the grocery store during my first outing with the baby. My little one was awake, grinning at everyone around her, cooing happily. I wanted to correct the woman, to tell her that my daughter was far from perfect—especially when she was wailing inches from my face at 2 AM. Yet, guilt washed over me, twisting my stomach into knots, making me want to hide away and cry.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, forcing a smile as I walked away.
It became clear very quickly that my baby adored being around others. She thrived on new faces, different voices, and the buzz of activity. But between learning to breastfeed, the challenges of postpartum recovery, and my emotional breakdowns in the afternoon, I found it hard to leave the house. Most of my days were spent on the couch, with her crying out for attention.
“What a little sweetheart!” a waitress said, playfully wiggling her finger at my daughter during our first restaurant visit. My baby had just woken up, and her bright red hair glimmered in the light as she flashed a big smile. Yes, she was adorable. But each compliment made my body ache—not just from the constant cycle of fullness and emptiness during breastfeeding, but from the physical toll of her thrashing and kicking during feedings and the chaos that ensued when my milk supply dwindled.
“Thank you,” I said again, holding her close while squeezing her cheeks in an attempt to hide my uncertainty. “Maybe this was a mistake,” I told myself daily. I realized that breast milk had stained my couch cushions and that my little one’s mood seemed to mimic mine. There was little time for food, showers, or even sleep amidst the endless cycle of feedings and diaper changes. The first words I uttered after giving birth were “Oh my god, she’s beautiful.” The second? “I don’t know if I want to do this again.” Those words haunted me, and I despised myself for feeling that way. My struggles weren’t my baby’s fault; they were mine.
“If you want my advice…” a woman in the waiting room began, but I was not interested in unsolicited tips. Everyone had their own tricks and wisdom to share, yet none could explain how to stop crying when everything seemed alright or how to feel whole again.
I spent countless hours breastfeeding while letting her nap on my chest. My nipples became her pacifiers, and she found comfort in my heartbeat. “She loves you,” my husband reassured me. “She just wants to be near you.” I nodded, though I often felt eclipsed by her joy when her father came home from work. She would light up for him, while with me, her smiles were few and far between. It felt like he was the “fun parent,” and I was just there.
“I think I’m experiencing postpartum depression,” I finally confessed.
I repeated those words to my husband, my parents, friends, and my doctor. Each time, I felt a little lighter. As the weeks passed, my tears diminished, and with each day, I felt a tiny bit better. It took me eight weeks of sobbing to find the courage to say it aloud and another two to call my doctor. I sought help, and now when I look at my daughter, I can smile, and she smiles back. Before long, I hope all I’ll recall are those beautiful moments.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s experience with postpartum depression, highlighting the contrast between societal expectations of motherhood and the reality of personal struggles. It emphasizes the importance of seeking help and recognizing one’s feelings while navigating the challenges of new parenthood. The journey from despair to moments of joy showcases resilience and the need for support.
Keyphrase: postpartum depression
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