In a hushed, distant tone, I confide in my partner, Jake, about my overwhelming feelings of despair. I don’t exactly want to die, I clarify, but I can’t bear this pain any longer. I assure him that love, obligation, and guilt will always hold more weight in my heart. “Jake, do you truly grasp what I’m saying?”
Before breakfast, I sing our daughter Emily to sleep, weaving her name into playful rhymes reminiscent of Dr. Seuss. I smile, a genuine smile that momentarily breaks through the sadness.
Jake listens closely as I articulate my dark thoughts, needing him to understand the depth of my conflict. I tell him that becoming a mother feels like a grave mistake. Somehow, he pulls me back to reality, reminding me of the woman he fell in love with, offering support with his comforting words.
“I can’t find the right words, but it will be okay, I promise. You’re a wonderful mother,” he reassures me. He knows how desperately we wanted this child after countless fertility tests, surgeries, and hormone treatments.
Amidst my tears, breastfeeding, and sheer exhaustion, I try to explain my sorrow. I assertively advocate for our child, telling Jake he’s the better parent. “Good parents don’t wish to fade away,” I tell him. He looks scared but continues to reassure me, insisting that this, that I, will improve. I nod, yet doubt lingers. Depression is an untamed beast that cannot be soothed with mere words.
Emily was born at 37 weeks, just two days after my doctor rushed me to the hospital due to dangerously high blood pressure from borderline preeclampsia. Despite a harrowing labor and delivery, she arrived unharmed. So to wish for my own death felt like the ultimate betrayal of gratitude. It’s a terrifying limbo that describes postpartum depression, a jarring see-saw between intense joy and profound anguish.
As I captured countless photos of our precious baby, propping her against the oversized teddy bear we bought, I marveled at the miracle Jake and I had created. Yet at night, I sometimes prayed for the sweet release of not waking up, fully aware of my irrational state, yet unable to quell the dark thoughts swirling around. I envisioned Jake shaking me awake, his cries and sobs piercing through my despair, and the thought of his heartbreak pulled me back to reality.
For a few weeks, we navigated through the worst of it. If I could turn back time, I would listen to Jake and seek help from family and friends. I would have bravely asked my doctor for antidepressants, fearing the side effects that held me back.
After a couple of months, I slowly emerged from the heavy fog of sadness, not entirely joyful, but recognizing my calling as a mother, despite the persistent feeling of being broken. When I share my struggle with other mothers, I often find that a few have experienced similar battles. Most whisper their experiences, as if the joy-filled mothers around us must never hear.
Even now, as we collectively and courageously acknowledge that parenting isn’t solely filled with laughter and bliss, many parents still insist that maternal love serves as our shield against the darkest times. I think of my friend Sarah, whose warmth and humor shine bright. Yet, we hold different views on what “good” mothers are allowed to feel.
In her eyes, “good” mothers don’t falter. They push through, and if they feel sad, it’s because their children have grown up and left home. Sadness is a result of loving too deeply, never an indication of not loving enough. Each time I brought up postpartum depression—my own experience, a friend’s, or even a celebrity’s—Sarah would reply, “I really don’t understand. I loved being a mom from the start.”
“Depression isn’t about how much a mother loves her children,” I explain. “It’s a treatable illness, a cruel cocktail of hormones, brain chemistry, sleeplessness, and sheer overwhelm.” I attempted to instill empathy in her, but she remained unconvinced that true maternal love could ever wane under the weight of depression.
From that point on, we never revisited the topic of postpartum depression. Perhaps I saved her from inadvertently causing harm to another mother grappling with the torment of conflicting thoughts: one that loves her child unconditionally and another that feels a deep yearning to escape into nothingness, and yet hopes to return to her beloved life.
Since that time, I’ve faced bouts of depression again, but nothing as dark and consuming as those early weeks following Emily’s birth. I’ve been reminded, almost haunted, by how swiftly and torturously my mind can spiral due to fluctuations in sleep and brain chemistry. It’s a precarious and frightening journey, yet it’s something I now understand better, something I’m learning to manage.
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Summary
Postpartum depression can deeply affect marriages and friendships, creating a rift in understanding between partners and friends. The emotional turmoil often leads to feelings of inadequacy and overwhelming sadness in new mothers, even when they love their children dearly. Sharing experiences and seeking help are crucial steps in navigating this difficult time, as is understanding that maternal love does not shield one from mental health struggles.