There I was, sitting in the rocking chair in my three-week-old son’s nursery, tears streaming down my face. I sobbed uncontrollably, a wave of sadness washing over me that I couldn’t seem to control. I gazed at my beautiful boy, feeling an overwhelming love that made my heart feel like it might burst. Yet, at the same time, I felt like a stranger to myself, as if I were watching my life unfold from a distance, disconnected from the person I once was.
I think back to just a week prior, when I found myself snapping at my partner and raising my voice with my daughter, Lily, way too often. I’d get mad over trivial things—like a dish left in the sink or my partner forgetting to bring me water. The frustration only grew when Lily needed my attention, which felt like too much to handle at the time.
Recovering from my second C-section was no picnic, and I lacked the energy to socialize. My days revolved around a monotonous cycle: feeding the baby, changing diapers, getting Lily to school, attending Bible study, squeezing in some work and maybe, just maybe, watching a show with my partner. It seemed simple enough, but I felt like I was just going through the motions.
Outwardly, I appeared to be thriving. I smiled, laughed, and shared adorable photos of my kids on social media. But inside, I was slowly crumbling, and I had no idea how to stop it. So, I cried—and cried some more. Sometimes I’d even yell.
I tried to convince myself that it was just the adjustment to having two kids and that Lily’s transition to big sister was tougher than expected. She adored her baby brother, but the concept of “gentle hands” clearly wasn’t sinking in.
One day, while waiting in the drive-thru for lunch (because let’s be real, cooking was out of the question), I was on the phone with my friend Sarah. When she casually asked, “How are you?” I replied with my usual upbeat “I’m good!” But without missing a beat, she called me out: “Lies. You’re not fine, are you?”
And just like that, the floodgates opened. I wept openly, and she reassured me, “It’s okay. It’s normal. I went through this too.” We ended up on the phone for ages until I finally admitted, “I think I have postpartum depression.” Saying those words was both liberating and terrifying. It felt like someone had dropped a truth bomb on me that I had been avoiding for weeks.
It took a friend who cared enough to push past my facade to help me confront what I was really feeling. Until that moment, I had been struggling in silence, trying to make sense of my emotions without even knowing what I was up against.
Later that night, I confided in my partner, Mark. I sat on the couch, gathering my courage, and said, “I need to talk to you.” After what felt like an eternity of dancing around the issue, I finally blurted out, “I think I have postpartum depression and anxiety.” His response? “I know.” Talk about a gut punch! How could he know and not say anything? But I realized he loved me and wanted to help but didn’t know how.
After tearful conversations, I made an appointment with my midwife, who had been my support during my pregnancy. Filling out the postpartum depression screening was challenging—I struggled to answer the questions through my tears. When my midwife arrived, I exclaimed, “These questions are ridiculous! Anyone feeling like this can’t possibly answer them!” We shared a laugh, and she embraced me tightly.
Talking with her provided immense comfort. She reassured me that what I was experiencing was normal, that I wasn’t losing my mind, that I was indeed a good mom, and that resources were available to help me. Those small reassurances meant the world to me at that moment.
We discussed possible next steps. I personally wasn’t keen on medication, as I had had a tough time with it in middle school. Instead, we talked about therapy, exercise, and even some essential oils for emotional support. She prescribed something, saying, “You don’t have to fill it if you don’t want to; just knowing it’s there can be a relief.”
Let me be clear: I’m not criticizing medication. It can be a lifesaver for many, and you should do what feels right for you. For me, I leaned heavily on Mark and a close friend during this time. In fact, many of my loved ones are learning about my struggles through this post.
Almost nine months later, I’m doing much better than in the early days of my son’s life. The depression has lifted, but the anxiety still lingers. I still find myself snapping at times or struggling with stress. Some days, I feel like a terrible mom; other days, I’m on top of the world. It’s a mix of ups and downs.
Through this journey, I’ve learned a lot about myself. Parenting truly is about trial and error. I have made mistakes, and I’m far from perfect. But I remind myself that it’s okay—I am loved, I am a good wife and mom, and perfection isn’t the goal. It’s all about acknowledging my challenges, facing them, and ultimately seeking a higher purpose.
I share my story not to seek sympathy, nor to play the hero, or even to ask for advice. I’m sharing because it’s therapeutic for me to express my experience, and I hope it resonates with someone out there who might feel alone. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel; things are getting better. Admitting I have postpartum depression and anxiety doesn’t mean I love my kids any less or that I’m a bad mom. It just means I’m facing an illness that I can and will overcome.
So, if you’re a mama struggling with postpartum mood disorders, know this: you can get through it. You are an amazing mom, you are beautiful, you are loved, and you can do this.
Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Jamie Turner shares her experience with postpartum depression after the birth of her second child. She candidly discusses the emotional rollercoaster she faced, the support she received from friends and family, and the steps she took to address her mental health. Jamie emphasizes the importance of acknowledging struggles and seeking help, reminding other mothers that they are not alone in their experiences.