For three years, I drifted through an endless haze. After nearly a decade battling major depressive disorder, my mind, heart, and body collectively reached a breaking point. At just 23 years old, I was exhausted—exhausted from pretending everything was fine. I felt emotionally depleted, completely adrift, and utterly numb.
Suddenly, I found it impossible to engage with life as I once did. Everyday tasks felt insurmountable; brushing my teeth became a monumental challenge. I was perpetually fatigued, not wanting to be awake at all. So, I decided to leave my job and sleep full-time.
I slept through those three years of my life.
During this period, I was in California, away from my family and friends back in New York. The distance provided a convenient excuse to conceal my struggles. I frequently updated my social media accounts to maintain the facade and responded to texts only when I found the energy. To the outside world, I appeared fine.
Yet, my husband witnessed my decline. He had been there throughout my battle with depression, but this phase was particularly alarming. I had become a mere shadow of my former self—a ghost, devoid of engagement. In a bid to help, he relocated us back to New York to surround me with family, hoping it would encourage me to socialize. But I couldn’t muster the will to participate. He did everything he could, but I was unwilling to fight for myself, and I sank deeper into despair.
So I slept through three years of my life.
But not in a proper bed. I often napped on the couch, waking only to eat. I neglected my basic needs, leading to frequent UTIs due to my inability to get up. I rarely showered and gained 70 pounds.
By April 2016, my relationship was on shaky ground. I was not the partner I had promised to be. My husband was weary of my refusal to confront my depression, and we began to drift apart while I remained in my slumber.
Then everything changed.
On April 4, 2016, I awoke feeling dreadful. I joked with my husband about possibly being pregnant, and we shared a laugh. However, after throwing up five times that day and taking five pregnancy tests, reality struck—I was pregnant, and we were far from ready, both financially and emotionally.
We fought over the implications of this unexpected news. I felt unfit to be a mother in my current state; I could barely care for myself, let alone a child. My husband was apprehensive, and I was overwhelmed with anxiety about the prospect of staying awake long enough to raise a baby. But despite our fears, we decided to move forward.
My pregnancy was fraught with complications, and mounting medical bills forced us out of our home and back to our parents’ houses. The situation was far from ideal. I worked hard to stay positive about my illness and excited about our baby, while my husband focused tirelessly on saving money. The situation drained us both—until my 16-week appointment.
I had chosen to wait to find out the sex of our baby, hoping it would give me something to anticipate. However, I felt a profound disconnect from the pregnancy. I didn’t feel like a mother; I felt trapped in sickness.
During my 16-week checkup, I had been hospitalized for nearly a month. A doctor wheeled me down for an anatomy scan.
“Do you want to know the sex of the baby?”
I glanced at my husband, needing something—anything—to cling to. I needed reassurance that there was a real child inside me. He nodded, encouraging me.
“It’s a girl.”
Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at my husband. “It’s Mia,” I said. “It’s our Mia.” From that moment, I embraced my identity as a mother—a depressed one, but a mother nonetheless.
Suddenly, my emotional support system was yanked away.
In the past, I had contemplated suicide as an escape from my relentless depression, anxiety, and self-loathing. But now, I couldn’t rely on that option; I was about to have someone who needed me more than I ever needed myself. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. I felt trapped, and that was precisely what I needed.
In the weeks leading up to my labor, I recognized the necessity for change—I had no choice. I forced myself to stay awake, and it was uncomfortable. Waking for several hours felt disorienting. I struggled to make sense of how to fill those hours and often longed to retreat back to sleep.
Yet, I pushed myself to eat, brush my teeth, shower, and stay awake throughout the day to prepare for the responsibilities of motherhood. I didn’t always succeed; I missed meals and lost weight unintentionally. I took long naps when necessary, but I tried—more than I had in those three dormant years.
Mia entered the world swiftly, and to my surprise, she didn’t cry. Instead, she gazed at me as if we were long-lost friends. In that moment, I realized I would do anything to protect her. She was healthy, and for the first time in years, I felt genuinely happy. I was proud of myself, my body, and my journey. I had never respected myself more or felt more accomplished.
Before Mia, I thought motherhood would mean forcing myself to remain awake. Instead, I find joy in each day and wake up because I want to. Motherhood jolted me from my hibernation, allowing me to experience the beauty I had overlooked for so long.
While I continue to face challenges, I am navigating them with the support of my partner and medical professionals. I experience severe postpartum anxiety and PTSD from the high-risk nature of my pregnancy. My worries about Mia are constant.
But at least I’m awake to embrace those worries.
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In summary, my journey through motherhood has forced me to confront my deep-seated depression, reshaping my life and priorities. I’ve learned to cherish every moment and face my challenges head-on, all because of my daughter, Mia.