I should have clued in that something was off when I found myself wanting to clutch a tray of sushi instead of my newborn daughter. Or when I burst into tears—yelling at my partner—while attempting to buckle our three-day-old into her car seat. Handing my week-old baby over to her grandmother and retreating to the bathroom to sob should have raised a red flag.
In hindsight, I realize I cried every day after my daughter’s birth, except for the day she entered the world. The first night at the hospital, I wept from exhaustion. The next day, the intense pain in my body had me in tears (especially since our apartment was up four flights of stairs, and each step pulled at my stitches). But the tears persisted long after the physical discomfort faded; they came unbidden, as instinctual as a sneeze, flowing multiple times a day.
It was at six weeks postpartum that I recognized I was grappling with postpartum depression. While Amelia napped, I sneaked into the bathroom, grateful for a moment alone. A glance in the mirror shocked me—puffy eyes, dry skin, and clumps of hair shedding onto my shoulder. My doctor had warned me this was due to “changing hormones,” but I was done with it. I wanted to shed everything that reminded me of the person I used to be before I became “Amelia’s mom.”
That weekend, I visited the nearest salon, pointed to a picture of a shaggy pixie cut, and left with hair shorter than my husband’s. For a brief moment, I reveled in the new look, feeling like I could be more than just a mother. But that fleeting promise quickly dissipated. I spiraled into deeper feelings of hopelessness and disconnection. I struggled to bond with my daughter, and my love for my partner felt strained—some days, I questioned my feelings for both of them entirely.
Describing depression is a paradox; it’s both a powerful emotion and a void, leaving you feeling alive yet utterly numb. It’s confusing and relentless, like a persistent shadow.
The darkest moments often crept in around 3 a.m., a time I dubbed “Mad Money hour.” While my daughter nursed, Jim Cramer’s financial rants filled the silence, and I sat there, sleep-deprived and questioning my very existence. It was in those still hours that I wrestled with thoughts of suicide. Initially, they felt innocuous—just fleeting ideas like jumping into traffic—but soon they became an all-consuming escape. I would lock my daughter’s stroller at stoplights, positioning myself just so, contemplating slipping away.
Those thoughts grew more intense, and I even devised plans, though I never settled on one. I knew I wouldn’t cut deeply enough, and hanging myself was futile (our shower curtain rod wouldn’t hold). Pills seemed like a possibility, but I worried they might fail too. I recognized the consequences but felt that my absence might be the safest option for Amelia. I was a danger to both of us.
My eating habits deteriorated; I grazed on scraps and lost weight rapidly. I cried over spilled water, too many dishes, or even a cat’s mishap. I cried simply because I was crying.
In November 2013, I finally admitted to myself and my partner that I couldn’t endure any longer. Whether it was the agony of cracked nipples or yet another cold cup of coffee, I needed help. I pleaded with him to take me to a facility. I confessed that I cried daily and felt overwhelmed with despair. Yet, there was one thing I never shared—the vision of harming my daughter.
I received a diagnosis of postpartum depression in January 2014. Depression has a way of convincing you that hope is lost. It isolates you, making you feel utterly alone, and postpartum depression is no exception.
Fast forward to now—Amelia is 20 months old. I wish I could say I’ve fully healed, but I’m still navigating the ups and downs. Therapy has helped, and while some days are challenging, I’m learning to manage the waves of emotion.
My hair has grown back, albeit in a variety of colors—blond, red, purple, and brown—but it’s a sign of progress. I realized I’ve grown attached to it as a reminder of those tough days. As wild and unruly as it may become, I can’t bring myself to cut it. Perhaps this is a lesson for all mothers, especially those who are reading this through the haze of unshed tears: hold on. Hold onto whatever gives you strength because it does get better.
Not perfect, but better, so just keep hanging on.
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Summary:
Postpartum depression is a challenging experience many new parents face, often leading to feelings of despair and isolation. The author shares her journey through intense emotions, suicidal thoughts, and the eventual recognition of her struggles. With therapy and time, she has found ways to cope, emphasizing the importance of holding on during difficult moments. Recovery is ongoing, but hope is possible.