The sun shone brightly that late October afternoon as I arrived at the hospital. My husband, Jake, approached the car, and I shifted into park. “How long do you think you’ll be?” he asked, concern etched on his face. “I’m not sure, maybe about 20 minutes,” I replied, assuring him I’d text when I was on my way back down. “Alright, the kids and I will just take a drive,” he said, glancing at the backseat where our two little ones were waiting. Due to hospital restrictions, we had to split our visit into shifts, leaving the kids out of this part of the experience.
As I stepped into the expansive lobby, everything felt unfamiliar despite having been there before for the birth of my youngest child three years earlier. I met my brother-in-law, Mark, exchanged a quick hug, and followed him to the elevator bank. We chatted about family and the oddity of being back in the hospital. I found myself over-talking, trying to fill the silence with words, willing myself to hold back tears and not to tumble into despair.
When the elevator doors rolled open, we proceeded down a long corridor, turning left and then left again before stopping at the hospital room. Mark carefully pushed open the heavy door, and the bright fluorescent lights, amplified by sunlight pouring through tall windows, nearly blinded me. The room was quiet but buzzed with a current of excitement, happiness, and perhaps a hint of fear.
“Congrats!” I exclaimed, hugging my sister-in-law, Sarah, who smiled effortlessly. We all turned our attention to the bassinet nestled in the corner. I stepped closer, peering in, as is customary when visiting new parents. However, as I leaned in, the buzzing in my ears grew louder, and the light burned my eyes. The air felt thin, making it hard to breathe, and beads of sweat formed on my upper lip, betraying my internal struggle. It was as if I were carrying an invisible burden filled with pain, regret, and a touch of anger.
Seven years earlier, almost to the day, Jake and I had entered a hospital similar to this one, but under the cover of darkness after racing down the street at 2 a.m. It seemed fitting, considering the months that followed felt like an endless night. After a long labor and delivery filled with complications, our son was born. I remember glancing at Jake as he held our newborn, a tear slipping onto the baby’s knit cap—a moment of tenderness overshadowed by chaos. Doctors hovered, speaking urgent words like “hemorrhaging” and “transfusion,” while visitors awaited eagerly outside. I didn’t want anyone around.
The days that followed were a blur of exhaustion and emotional detachment. Nursing, cuddling, and diaper changes felt foreign and uncomfortable. I longed to escape back to the hospital, feeling out of place in my own home, where our two dogs cautiously welcomed the newest family member. The initial postpartum days at home were uncomfortable at best, excruciating at worst. While fleeting moments of happiness punctured the haze, they felt like distant memories, always slightly out of reach.
Before giving birth, I had heard of postpartum depression but never thought it would apply to me. I understood it was a real condition, yet I rationalized that I didn’t fit the mold. I didn’t want to harm myself or my baby, but I felt disconnected and devoid of joy, as if the lights had gone out in my life. This was the life I had wanted; I should be happy. I convinced myself that newborns were challenging, and I just needed to push through. So, I did just that.
I rose each morning to feed my baby, responding to his cries—though with reluctance—and tending to his needs. I captured photos of his first smiles and recorded videos of his laughter. Yet, I also cried almost daily, yelled often, and kept score of my perceived failures. I missed my old life and envied friends enjoying dinners out and carefree nights. I questioned whether returning to work would be better and if I was truly cut out for motherhood. Loneliness consumed me, and anger and sadness intertwined.
I pushed through those initial months and years, and with the unwavering support of a patient husband, understanding friends, and a renewed faith in my resilience, the lights gradually began to flicker back on. The process resembled the slow dawning of fluorescent bulbs—hardly noticeable at first, but eventually, I realized it was no longer dark.
As I walked into that hospital room on that sunny October afternoon, I understood that recovery was just one part of the journey. Had I truly healed, or was I destined to chase away shadows forever?
“She’s beautiful,” I said to the new parents, as was expected. It flowed naturally because, indeed, she was a lovely baby. “Can I hold her?” I asked, though it felt like an intrusion. Despite the hesitation, I knew that when visiting new parents, holding the baby was customary. So, I summoned the courage to step into their world.
She nestled into my arms, and I made small talk to drown out the buzzing in my head. I asked about her delivery, their feelings, and every other idle question that came to mind. I held her as I wiped sweat from my brow, speaking over the din in my ears while hoping they wouldn’t notice the tremor in my voice or my shaky hands. The air felt thin, and I took shallow breaths. Meanwhile, a mental split-screen played out in my mind—on one side, a radiant scene of joy with a beautiful baby and excited parents; on the other, the sepia-toned memory of my own hospital room, marked by fear and an overwhelming sense of sadness.
As I held my niece, I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t experienced that joy. Why had postpartum depression wrapped its tendrils around me? After what felt like the right amount of time, I handed her back to her mother, offering another round of congratulations.
As I retraced my steps back through the hospital halls, I exited into the waiting embrace of my family. “Welcome back, dear,” Jake said as I slid into the passenger seat. “Mom!” the kids chirped, and I responded, “I missed you!” Before I knew it, tears streamed down my cheeks, hidden behind my sunglasses, during the drive home.
Though I had made strides in my recovery, the healing would take time. Thankfully, I had a carload of loved ones who made me feel wanted, needed, and cherished while I awaited the fading of the scars.
In Summary
Healing from postpartum depression is a complex journey marked by moments of joy and lingering shadows. Despite the progress made, the emotional scars can take time to fade. With the support of loved ones, the path to healing can become a little easier.
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