It was a sweltering 97 degrees when I went into labor, waiting on a subway platform for the uptown train to the hospital. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. I had tried everything to get labor going: devoured an entire pineapple and trekked nearly 2 miles (only pausing once for a cold iced tea and a restroom break). I even dabbled in nipple stimulation and, well, let’s just say, personal time. At 39 weeks and in the midst of a blazing heat wave, I was officially over it. I was ready to transition from being pregnant to being a parent.
The hospital felt like an oasis. Any expectant mom who has braved the summer heat knows how refreshing it is to feel cool and comfortable at the end of such a long journey. After 34 hours of labor, that was my first big blessing, but I couldn’t shake my concern for my newborn daughter; our apartment was way too warm for a little one.
We had two air conditioning units in our cramped two-bedroom apartment—one in the living room and another in the bedroom—but the heat was relentless. The sun rose in our daughter’s room and set in the kitchen, leaving the rest of the space swelteringly hot. I would often roam around in nothing but a nursing bra and underwear, a hospital-grade maxi pad doing little to help. Looking back, I can’t quite recall if it was the heat or the emotional weight of finally having time alone with my baby that made the tears flow. I cried not out of sadness or loneliness (though I felt those too), but because it was a primal reaction, like sneezing. The tears came in waves—three, four, or even five times a day.
Postpartum depression (PPD), or postnatal depression, is a specific kind of depression that can strike women after giving birth. Besides the typical fatigue and sleepless nights, I was also dealing with anxiety that peaked whenever my husband left for work. I’d sob uncontrollably as he walked down the hallway, well before the deadbolt clicked shut. I cried over spilled water, a cold cup of coffee, a pile of dishes, and even when my cat had an accident. The tears flowed so freely that they became a part of my daily routine.
Everything made me irritable— a messy floor, a fussy baby, and a husband who got to leave the house while I was stuck inside, knee-deep in diapers and spit-up. I could manage the small things—turning on the TV to fill the silence, heading to the bathroom, or checking the mail—but that was about it. Life continued around me while I felt like I was sinking.
I started taking daily walks, no matter the weather. My daughter was shielded by her stroller and carrier, but I was always exposed to the elements. They say sunlight can help combat depression, but honestly, it didn’t seem to work for me. I mostly remember those days as a blur filled with odd sunburns that only affected the tops of my shoulders, iced coffee runs, and the overwhelming messiness of Foodtown, our local grocery store.
I’d stop at the coffee shop for a reason, but I think I also ventured into Foodtown hoping to be noticed, seeking advice I desperately needed. I wanted someone to see I was struggling, to recognize my silent plea for help, as I tried to escape the confines of our home and my own mind.
Having a history of depression, I knew what I was facing, yet I kept pushing through. I felt like I should be enjoying motherhood, but instead, I was stuck in a cycle of sadness. I knew better than to think I could just snap out of it.
The first year of my daughter’s life felt like I was underwater. It was like trying to keep my eyes open in a chlorinated pool, with the sting of reality dulled. I held back tears while she munched on Cheerios and breast milk, cried when she learned to smile and crawl, and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt when she called me “mama.” To me, a real mama loved her child unconditionally, and I didn’t feel like one.
One of my darkest moments came after a particularly rough day. My daughter was teething and crying, and nothing seemed to soothe her. I offered her my breast, and while she latched on for a moment, she quickly returned to her frustrated state. I stared blankly at the freshly painted closet door, my heart heavy. As I rocked her, silent tears streamed down my face. In that moment, I had a terrifying vision of holding her too tightly, and I had to snap out of it. I placed her safely in her crib and collapsed in the hallway, sobbing uncontrollably. I slammed my hands against the floor until they were red and raw, screaming into a towel as my child cried in her crib. In that moment, I thought about giving up; I realized I needed to fight for my life.
But here I am, years later, still standing. I’m fortunate to have sought help and to have held on. Even now, as the weather warms up, I feel those old feelings creeping back. Heat still reminds me of tears, and tears remind me of despair. I can’t pretend to love hot weather, but instead of battling it, I keep my thermostat at a comfortable 76 degrees, throw on some shorts and sunscreen, and take my daughter to the park. We chase ducks, pick flowers, and soak up the sun together.
If you’re feeling lost or in need of support during your own journey, remember you’re not alone. There are resources available, like those found at Hopkins Medicine’s Fertility Center, or check out Make A Mom’s Cryobaby Kit for more information on home insemination. And for even more insights, don’t forget to explore our terms and conditions.
Summary:
Navigating postpartum depression can feel isolating, but it’s crucial to recognize you’re not alone in this journey. Emily’s story illustrates the emotional turmoil that many women can experience post childbirth while also highlighting the importance of seeking help and finding joy in small moments.