After recently confronting my own battle with postpartum depression (PPD), I took to my blog to connect with other women who have faced similar challenges. Many shared their heartfelt stories, but one in particular struck a deep chord. A fellow mother, Sarah Blake, opened up about the heartbreaking experience of losing her mother to PPD.
PPD remains one of those topics we don’t discuss nearly enough. Hearing from someone who lost their mother to this condition is a stark reminder of its reality and the fear it can instill.
Initially, I hesitated to share my own experiences. I’ve always aimed to maintain a positive outlook. But the moment I wavered was the very moment I realized I had to voice my truth. I knew that by being open and vulnerable, my words might reach someone in need—someone grappling with postpartum depression or another form of depression.
My mom was only 22 when she had me, just a year after marrying my dad. She had already stepped into the role of a stepmother to my older brother and was overjoyed at the thought of becoming a biological mother. When I came into the world, it was a joyous occasion—my mom was a vibrant, loving person, always smiling, running, and ensuring her hair was perfectly styled. She had a heart as big as her dreams.
But after my birth, things began to shift. Arguments erupted between my parents over trivial matters. She would dress me inappropriately for the weather and even had a near-miss with her nephew lying on the floor nearby. Lunches turned into a solitary apple, and she started losing weight. More distressingly, her radiant smile faded away.
In hindsight, these signs became painfully clear after she took her own life.
On the day my dad was supposed to stay at his brother’s house to escape the tension, he lay down for a nap. When he awoke, he found my mother hanging from the closet door in their bedroom. Though her heart was still beating, it barely clung to life.
She was pronounced dead later that day at the hospital, surrounded by family. My dad felt an overwhelming urge to flee this nightmare, but he had to face the reality of raising me alone.
“There’s a saying that resonates with my upbringing: ‘It takes a village.’” My father, a truck driver often away on the road, relied heavily on our neighbors for support.
Now comes the difficult part: being brutally honest about the emotions tied to growing up without a mother, especially one lost to suicide due to postpartum depression—a condition that can be treated and perhaps prevent tragedies like mine.
When I share that my mother passed away when I was young, the typical response is one of sympathy. Yet, my reply has always been, “Don’t be.” I strongly believe that every event in life occurs for a reason. While I don’t understand why I was meant to grow up without a mother, I acknowledge the pain it brings.
No one should face life without their mom. She is irreplaceable. My dad has never remarried, fearing he would betray my late mother’s memory. The heartache he carries is something he will never fully heal from.
My grandparents turned to faith and each other to cope with losing a child. It wasn’t until I was eleven that my dad found the courage to tell me the truth about my mother’s death, after classmates had already informed me. Until then, I was told she was sad and went to heaven. The truth was a heavy burden for my dad to share, as it hurt him deeply.
People often don’t realize how the loss of a loved one to suicide alters reactions and moods. The grief can leave others unsure of how to respond. When I encounter someone who knew my mom, their expressions change, and conversation falters.
For years, I battled with self-blame. If I hadn’t been born, she might still be here. In my darkest moments, I felt my existence wasn’t worth the loss of her. Here was this remarkable woman loved by so many, gone because of me.
There were times I resented her. I couldn’t blame a freak accident or cancer, nor could I point fingers at anyone else for her decision. In my view, losing a parent to suicide is profoundly devastating.
She chose, in that moment, to miss all the milestones in my life—school events, friendships, graduations, and one day, my own children’s births. I lacked the guidance of the one person who should have taught me the essentials of growing up. While I was fortunate to have strong women around me, I felt the void of a steady motherly figure.
It took years to forgive her for becoming the source of my persistent heartache and to stop asking God, “Why?”
Yet, I love her more than I ever thought I could love someone I barely knew. She suffered from PPD, and while she could have chosen to end my life too, she didn’t, and I’m grateful for that.
But the pain never truly fades. As I get older, reminders of what I’ll never have are constant. I watch my friends bond with their mothers, while my children don’t understand why they visit a cemetery to “see” their grandmother. I often feel lost in my parenting journey without her guidance.
Through education, I’ve learned that she wasn’t herself during that dark period. Suicide wasn’t her choice under normal circumstances.
PPD can be an incredibly debilitating condition, particularly if left untreated. In the ’90s, it was a subject shrouded in silence. I can’t help but think that if there had been more awareness, she might still be here.
To anyone grappling with PPD or depression: don’t shy away from seeking help. Perfection is a myth, especially for new mothers. With social media amplifying the pressure to appear flawless, it’s easy to feel alone. But remember, you’re not. Reach out to your partner, family, friends, or even me. Consult a doctor. It’s crucial to find your way back to yourself. I’m sure my mom thought she could manage it alone.
I’ll continue to create memories with my family, holding onto the belief that she’s with us in spirit, despite her absence. I’ll talk to her during tough times, seeking her guidance, and I’ll share her story with my children, no matter how challenging it is to answer their questions.
I strive to raise awareness, hoping to prevent another child from growing up without their most important person.
Summary
This reflection on losing a mother to postpartum depression underscores the importance of awareness and seeking help. The author shares personal insights about growing up without maternal support and encourages others to address their mental health struggles. By promoting open conversations about PPD, the hope is to prevent similar tragedies in the future.