There were signs I should have noticed post-birth, like when I preferred to clutch a tray of sushi over my newborn, just a day old. Or the moment I erupted in tears and yelled at my partner while struggling to secure our three-day-old daughter in her car seat for the first time. I should have recognized something was amiss when, after handing our week-old baby to her grandmother, I retreated to the bathroom, locking myself in to let the tears flow.
In hindsight, I now understand that I cried every single day after my daughter’s birth, except for her birthday itself. The first night in the hospital was filled with tears from exhaustion, and the following day, I sobbed from the sharp pain of recovery (living in a four-floor walk-up made every step feel like a trial). Yet, even when the “reasons” to cry faded, the tears continued to come—an instinctual reaction, similar to a cough or sneeze, flooding me multiple times a day.
I realized I was battling postpartum depression when my daughter was six weeks old. Amelia was napping, and I found a brief moment of solitude in the bathroom. Glancing at my reflection, I saw swollen eyes, dry, pockmarked skin, and clumps of dirty blond hair on my shoulder. My hair was thinning, a change my doctor warned me about due to hormonal shifts, but I wanted it gone. I invested everything in those limp, fading strands, representing the woman I was before becoming “Amelia’s mom.”
That weekend, I visited a nearby salon, pointed to a picture of a shaggy pixie cut, and left with hair shorter than my husband’s. For a fleeting moment, I loved the new look and what it signified—freedom from motherhood. But that feeling quickly dissipated, and I spiraled into a deeper state of despair; I felt empty, disconnected, and hopeless. I struggled to bond with my daughter and found myself emotionally distant from my husband, sometimes feeling no love for either of them.
Describing depression is challenging. It’s both a feeling and an absence of feeling. You exist—moving, eating, breathing—but emotionally, you’re lost. It’s a confusing and illogical experience that digs deep into your core.
The darkest moments often struck at 3 a.m.—“Insomnia Hour,” as I began to call it. While Amelia fed, I was left to listen to Jim Cramer’s stock market rants on TV, all while my husband slept soundly. Nothing ever feels right during those hours, and I often questioned motherhood and my life choices.
The thoughts of suicide entered my mind, initially appearing as fleeting ideas—like jumping in front of a bus—but soon grew more consuming. While pushing Amelia in her stroller at red lights, I would position myself so that if I leaned back, I could easily slip away. The thoughts intensified, and although I made plans, none seemed viable. I worried about the consequences, but none felt as harmful as my current state of mind. I was a danger to myself and my daughter; maybe if I were gone, she would be safe.
My eating habits deteriorated; I barely consumed anything resembling a proper meal. I became fixated on scraps of bread and spoonfuls of Parmesan cheese. I lost all my pregnancy weight within three months and continued to drop pounds thereafter. I cried over the simplest things—spilled water, a pile of dishes, or even cleaning up after my cat. I cried because I was crying.
In November 2013, I reached a breaking point. I don’t recall whether it was cracked nipples or another cold cup of coffee that pushed me over the edge, but I knew I needed help. I begged my husband for support, admitting I cried daily and felt overwhelmed. I expressed a desire to die, but I kept my darkest thoughts about harming our daughter to myself.
I received a diagnosis of postpartum depression in January 2014.
Depression convinces you that hope is lost. It isolates you, leaving you feeling utterly alone, and postpartum depression is no exception. Now, with Amelia at 20 months, I wish I could say I’ve fully recovered, but I still face challenges. I attend therapy, and while I feel better, difficult days remain a part of my life.
My hair has grown back, though its color changes frequently (I’ve tried blond, red, purple, teal, and brunette). It seems trivial to hold onto my hair, but it symbolizes a long, taxing journey. As wild and unmanageable as it may become, I’ve refrained from cutting it. I can’t cut it. Perhaps this is the lesson for all mothers, especially those reading through tears: hang on. Hold onto whatever you can because it does get better.
Not perfect, but better—so just keep holding on.
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Summary
This article reflects the struggles and realities of postpartum depression, detailing a personal journey through emotional turmoil and isolation. It emphasizes the importance of seeking help and holding onto hope, reminding mothers that while the journey may be fraught with challenges, improvement is possible.