It was a sweltering 97 degrees when I went into labor, waiting on an underground subway platform for an uptown train to the hospital. I had done everything possible to induce labor: consuming an entire pineapple and walking nearly two miles, with only a brief stop for unsweetened iced tea and a restroom break. By 39 weeks, amid our fifth heat wave of the summer, I was desperate for the pregnancy phase to end and for the parenting journey to begin.
The hospital offered a welcome reprieve from the heat. Anyone who has experienced pregnancy during the summer months can appreciate the comfort of cool air, especially after enduring 34 hours of labor. However, my thoughts quickly shifted to my newborn daughter, as I worried about how warm our apartment would be for her.
We had two air conditioning units in our small two-bedroom apartment, one in the living room and another in the bedroom. Still, this did little to alleviate the heat, as the sun blazed in my daughter’s room and set in the kitchen. Unless you were sitting directly in front of the units, it was uncomfortably hot. I often found myself roaming the apartment in just my nursing bra and underwear, wearing a hospital-grade maxi pad, and still sweating. In hindsight, it’s unclear whether it was the heat or the solitude with my baby that triggered my tears. I cried not solely out of sadness, loneliness, or feeling lost—though those feelings were present—but because it felt instinctual, like a reflex. The tears flowed multiple times a day.
Postpartum depression (PPD), a specific type of depression affecting women after childbirth, encompasses symptoms such as sadness, fatigue, changes in sleep and eating patterns, diminished libido, crying, anger, anxiety, and irritability. While some symptoms, like fatigue and sleepless nights, seemed typical of parenting, others were impossible to overlook. My anxiety peaked during weekdays before my partner left for work, and I often sobbed as he walked down the hallway, even before the deadbolt clicked shut. I cried over spilled water, cold coffee, an overflowing sink of dishes, and even when my cat got sick. Sometimes, I cried just because I was crying. Before long, those tears morphed into anger, where everything frustrated me: a messy floor, a fussy baby, and a partner who could leave for work while I felt trapped at home, buried under diapers and baby spit-up.
While I could manage little tasks like turning on the television to break the silence or going outside to collect the mail, life seemed to carry on around me. I began taking daily walks, no matter the weather. My daughter was protected from the summer sun by overlapping canopies, but I remained exposed to the elements. Although sunlight is often said to improve mood, I found little solace in it.
Most of my memories from that time blur together, marked only by an odd sunburn on the back of my neck and shoulders, my reliance on iced coffee, and my disdain for our local grocery store, which, while cleaner than many Brooklyn bodegas, left much to be desired. I often stopped at the coffee shop, but my visits to the grocery store felt more complicated. I hoped to be noticed, to receive advice that could help me. I was desperate to be seen; I wanted to escape the confines of my home and my own mind.
Given my history with depression, I recognized the signs but fought against them. I believed that if I pushed hard enough, I could overcome this hurdle. I thought I should be enjoying motherhood and experiencing joy. “Just snap out of it,” I told myself. Yet, I knew better.
I felt as if I were observing the first year of my daughter’s life underwater, akin to keeping my eyes open in a heavily chlorinated pool. I choked back tears while she enjoyed Cheerios, butternut squash, and breast milk. I wept as she learned to smile, sit, stand, and crawl. I cried when she uttered “mama.” I didn’t feel like a true mama; mamas love their children unconditionally and relish motherhood. I wasn’t the mother she deserved.
One of my darkest moments came after a particularly challenging day. My daughter was teething and inconsolable. I offered her my breast, and while she latched on momentarily, she quickly returned to her cries. Staring blankly at the freshly painted closet door, I rocked her gently, tears streaming down my cheeks. In a moment of darkness, I envisioned holding her tightly against my chest, gripping her harder and harder until her cries ceased and her body went limp. Terrified, I snapped back to reality, placed her safely in her crib, and left the room. I sank to the floor in our narrow hallway, knees drawn to my chest, sobbing uncontrollably. I pounded my palms against the polished wooden floors until they were red and swollen, crying until my throat ached. My baby continued to wail in her crib, and I screamed into a towel I had grabbed. It was in that moment I contemplated ending my life; I realized then that I needed help.
Fortunately, I sought assistance and managed to endure, but even two years later, I can feel my defenses rising as the weather warms. The heat evokes memories of tears, which in turn remind me of darker thoughts. I still struggle to appreciate the warmth and despise when my legs stick together or when I have to peel myself off plastic patio furniture. Yet, instead of resisting these feelings, I adjust my thermostat to a comfortable 76 degrees, don shorts and sunscreen, and take my daughter to the park to chase ducks and gather flowers under the sun.
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Summary:
This article recounts a personal narrative of postpartum depression, detailing the struggles of navigating motherhood amidst intense emotional turmoil. It reflects on the complexities of feeling overwhelmed, anxious, and angry while caring for a newborn. Despite the overwhelming challenges, the story concludes on a note of hope and resilience, emphasizing the importance of seeking help and finding joy in motherhood.