“She’s an absolute treasure,” remarked a woman at the grocery store during my first outing with my newborn. My little one was wide awake in her carrier, charming everyone around her with her coos and bright eyes. I wanted to tell that woman she was mistaken; my baby girl was far from perfect, especially when she was wailing inches from my ear at two in the morning. But guilt washed over me for even harboring such thoughts, knotting my stomach and making me wish for a quiet, dark corner to hide away and cry.
“Thank you,” I managed, forcing a smile as I moved on. I quickly discovered that my munchkin thrived on social interaction—she adored meeting new people, absorbing the world around her, and relishing the chaos of daily life. Unfortunately, amidst mastering breastfeeding, navigating postpartum recovery, and battling my daily afternoon meltdowns, I struggled to find the energy to venture outside. Most of my days were spent on the couch, with her cries echoing in my ears.
“Isn’t she a darling?” A waitress exclaimed, playfully wiggling her finger in front of my munchkin during our first restaurant visit. After waking from her nap, my little one beamed with her wide smile and vibrant red hair aglow in the light. She truly was beautiful. Yet, every compliment about her cuteness made my body ache—not just from the relentless cycle of fullness and emptiness but also from her kicking and squirming during feedings and the volcanic tantrums that erupted when my milk supply dwindled.
“Thank you,” I replied, holding her close and squeezing her cheeks, feeling lost and overwhelmed. “Maybe this was a mistake,” I told myself daily. I learned rather quickly that breast milk left stains on my couch, that my munchkin’s mood often mirrored my own, and that there never seemed to be a moment to eat, shower, or rest between feedings and diaper changes. The first words I uttered when I gave birth were, “Oh my god, she’s stunning.” The second were, “I’m not sure I can do this again.” Those words haunted me, and I felt a deep sense of guilt for feeling that way—it wasn’t her fault; it was mine.
“If you want some advice,” a woman in the waiting room started to offer. But I didn’t want any more advice. Everyone had their tricks and tips, but none of them could tell me how to stop crying when everything seemed fine or how to feel like my true self again.
I breastfed her and let her drift off to sleep on my chest, her tiny body finding solace in the rhythm of my heartbeat. “She loves you,” my husband reassured me. “She just wants to be near you.” I nodded, but I noticed that when he came home from work, she would light up for him, grinning broadly, while I struggled to elicit even a smile. He was the fun parent; I felt like the one who was just there.
“I think I have postpartum depression,” I finally admitted.
Those words escaped my lips to my husband, my mom, my dad, friends, and my doctor. Each time I spoke them, a weight lifted. I cried less each week and felt a little lighter each day. It took me eight weeks of tears to find the courage to utter those words, and another two weeks to contact my doctor. I sought help and am now looking at my munchkin with a smile, knowing she smiles back. Soon enough, all I hope to remember are the moments of joy and laughter.
If you’re interested in more insights on this journey, check out another one of our blog posts for additional support. And for those looking into at-home insemination options, Make A Mom offers reliable kits and supplements to boost fertility. Also, Progyny is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, my experience with postpartum challenges was filled with emotional highs and lows. By acknowledging my struggles and seeking help, I began to reclaim my joy and connection with my baby, reminding myself that it’s okay to ask for support along the way.
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