For the past week, I’ve been eager to pen a heartfelt piece about my youngest daughter, Mia. I wanted to capture her infectious laughter, striking blue eyes, and the sheer joy she exudes when her older siblings enter the room. Yet, a deeper urge tugged at me to share the real story behind my journey to becoming Mia’s mother—a journey markedly different from my first two experiences. Those initial days were filled with uncertainty, and there were moments when I doubted I would ever feel like myself again. Six months later, I’ve come to realize that we are continually evolving as individuals and as parents. I’ll never return to the person I was before that fateful day when I saw two lines on a pregnancy test. And you know what? That’s perfectly fine.
I am a warrior.
When you step into motherhood, the warnings come flooding in: Be vigilant for the signs. Seek help. Remember, you are not alone. If the baby blues escalate, reach out to your doctor. There’s absolutely no shame in considering medication. We’re all here for you. We love you. But how can you reach out for help when shame is the only feeling you can grasp?
After giving birth to my first daughter, Lily, I was acutely aware of my potential for postpartum depression. Having battled depression for much of my life, I had previously sought treatment for eating disorders. Three months postpartum, my sister and best friend came to visit, and while we were enjoying a wonderful weekend, I suddenly found myself sobbing uncontrollably on the bathroom floor, unable to breathe. Looking back, I realize the buildup had been relentless.
In that moment, I was shocked. I called my doctor’s office, desperate for an appointment. I was prescribed Zoloft and, although I felt “fine,” I didn’t want to discuss my struggles. I wanted to be the ideal mother. But great moms don’t experience postpartum depression, right? The stigma weighed heavily on me; how could I feel this way after bringing life into the world? The thoughts spiraled endlessly in my mind.
I convinced myself that it was normal to feel unwell. After all, sleep had become a distant memory, and I was nursing around the clock. I was 30 pounds heavier than my pre-pregnancy weight, and I ached all over from co-sleeping with my precious little one. I thought this was the reality of motherhood, and I simply had to adjust.
Then we decided to have another child. Despite my aversion to pregnancy, I cherished the miracle of nurturing a life within me. But the second time around was a true test; my husband had lost his job, we resided far from family, and we faced mounting financial pressures. Yet somehow, we made it through. When my second daughter, Tara, was born after a successful unmedicated VBAC, I felt like a superhero. There was no way I could succumb to postpartum depression—I had just accomplished something monumental.
Or so I thought.
The first night home with Tara, as I attempted to nurse her in the stillness of the night, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Suddenly, my skin crawled, my heart raced, and I found myself gasping for air. I woke my husband, thrust the baby into his arms, and insisted we needed to go outside because I felt like I was dying. That moment marked the beginning of my battle with postpartum anxiety.
Again, I called my doctor’s office and, after consulting with my midwife, I decided to resume Zoloft. Given my history of postpartum depression, I was warned that I was at a heightened risk for anxiety. Damn.
In hindsight, I should have sought more support. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t okay, but I repeatedly told myself to “get it together.” This must be what motherhood entails—why was I so weak?
Months rolled by, and gradually the fog began to lift. I started supplementing with formula to relieve some pressure, began sleeping more, and reclaimed my body through exercise—all while juggling the demands of my two energetic daughters.
Fast forward to June 2016: I was driving home with the girls after our daily routine when I casually mentioned to my birth doula, who was pregnant, that my period was late. The idea struck me like lightning—I was stunned and terrified. A mere 20 minutes later, I confirmed my worst fear: I was pregnant again.
When I told my husband, he laughed initially but quickly turned serious, asking how he could help. I requested he take the kids out for a movie and pour me a glass of wine (it was only 10 a.m.). For the next two hours, I sat at the base of the stairs, head in hands, crying uncontrollably. I had barely begun to heal, and now I was facing this daunting reality again.
Exhausted and depleted, I called my family and expressed my fears. The mantra I repeated to myself during my pregnancy was, “It better be a boy.”
Around 20 weeks, panic attacks returned. I woke in the night, struggling to breathe, and each episode was more disorienting than the last. I fought to maintain a sense of normalcy for my children, but my marriage began to suffer, and routine tasks felt overwhelming.
When I finally managed to see my doctor, I pleaded for help. The response was lackluster; they suggested I go back on Zoloft, claiming it was safe during pregnancy. I tried various dosages, but none alleviated the growing panic.
My family bore witness to my turmoil. I felt trapped in my own skin, desperate for relief. During a routine checkup at 32 weeks, I met a midwife named Sarah, who changed everything. “You don’t have to live like this,” she assured me. She referred me to a specialist in postpartum and perinatal mental health.
At my first appointment, the psychiatrist expressed relief at my arrival and reassured me that I would feel better. Though I was skeptical, I left with a new prescription. She emphasized that a healthy mother is fundamental for a healthy baby.
The transformation didn’t happen overnight, but slowly, I began to feel lighter. My anxiety lessened, and I could breathe again. Then, on a sunny February day, I welcomed my third daughter, Mia.
Mia is beautiful, full of personality, and has inherited her siblings’ zest for life. She offers a calming presence amidst the chaos. This little girl shared my struggles, the only one who truly understood the depths of my anxiety.
Since her birth, I’ve prioritized my mental health and embraced the realities of motherhood, even amidst the challenges of anxiety and depression. Although Mia was an unexpected blessing, she pushed me to confront my demons and reclaim my identity as both a mother and an individual.
Mia recently celebrated her first tooth without much fuss, a testament to her resilient spirit. Reflecting on where I was a year ago, I am grateful for how far I’ve come. We are still here, thriving as a family, and I wear the title of “warrior mom” with pride.
This journey is far from over, but I am stronger than I ever imagined. If you are navigating similar trials, know that you are not alone. For more insights into postpartum experiences, check out Modern Family Blog for expert advice. And if you’re considering home insemination, this at-home insemination kit might be a helpful resource. For additional information on pregnancy and insemination methods, refer to this resource from Cleveland Clinic.
In summary, the path through postpartum depression and anxiety is fraught with challenges, but it also offers the opportunity for tremendous personal growth. Embrace your warrior spirit, and remember that reaching out for help is a sign of strength, not weakness.