Updated: October 10, 2023
I’ve been through this journey before. The second time should be smoother, quicker. After all, I’m familiar with the challenges waiting ahead—the sleepless nights with a newborn, the endless cycle of cluster feeding, the countless diaper changes.
I’ve got this.
In the final weeks of my second pregnancy, a sense of tranquility enveloped me. My body seemed to remember the rhythm of pregnancy all too well. From the moment the pregnancy test showed positive, a small bump became visible beneath my shirt, and by 9 weeks, I appeared as pregnant as I did at 20 weeks during my first pregnancy. Family members exchanged knowing glances as I tried to conceal my growing belly beneath loose-fitting tops. My body was already producing colostrum well before my due date, embracing this pregnancy like an old friend. It just knew what to do.
I’ve got this.
Over the past three years, my confidence as a mother had surged. I was proud of successfully breastfeeding for 18 months. I could change a diaper in the dark while nursing, all without fully waking up. I felt like Super Mom, the emblem of resilience in my peanut-butter-stained yoga pants. I had found my identity in motherhood. Yes, I still faced insecurities about my body and shifting relationships, but in the realm of parenting, I felt empowered.
I’ve got this.
When labor began, I felt in command of my body. I breathed through the contractions and delivered my beautiful daughter naturally in under three hours. She latched on right away and nursed happily. Everything was unfolding according to plan. Until it abruptly changed.
Just four hours post-delivery, I found myself in the hospital bed surrounded by family. A gentle hum of love filled the room, accompanied by coos for my newborn. Suddenly, I felt warmth pooling beneath me. I remember gasping to my mother that I couldn’t breathe, feeling as though invisible hands were tightening around my neck. I saw a stunning red—my blood, splattered across the floor and walls. Then… nothing.
Moments later, I was pulled from the bathroom, unconscious, barely breathing, and bleeding. Time became a blur. I awoke to a crowd of concerned doctors and nurses, my husband’s wide-eyed panic, and the frantic cries of my newborn. It was then that the pain hit me; I had lost control of my body.
I didn’t have this.
A postpartum hemorrhage was not part of my birth plan. I hadn’t anticipated the crushing exhaustion and weakness that would accompany my recovery. Simply standing made me feel nauseous and dizzy. I couldn’t manage to get to the bathroom, let alone hold my newborn. Blood transfusions, medications, and the turmoil of hypovolemic shock swirled in my mind, leaving me bewildered. How could such contrasting feelings coexist on what was supposed to be a joyous day?
Due to the hemorrhage, my milk took a while to come in. A week passed, and I was producing only a few milliliters. My sleepy newborn struggled to nurse, quickly tiring and falling asleep again. It became a frustrating cycle, and she lost a full pound in just days. I didn’t plan for this inability to breastfeed.
The initial days at home dragged on. I felt overwhelmed managing my own recovery while caring for two children. Between pumping, supplementing, and feeding every two hours, I barely had time to take my iron supplements or make a sandwich for my toddler.
Nights were even longer. Intrusive thoughts crept in during the sleepless hours—terrifying images of my birth and concerns for my baby replayed like a horror film. I felt anxious and terrified to be alone with my children. Doubts about my ability to care for them eroded my confidence. A dark fog settled into my mind. I struggled to connect with my husband and kids, moving through each day on autopilot.
I offered a weak smile at my son’s goofy new song, but I felt no joy. I stroked my week-old daughter’s head, yet all I could feel was dread for the upcoming night—alone with my crying baby and my spiraling thoughts.
Most troubling was the fear that this feeling would never dissipate. I couldn’t envision living like this indefinitely, and the thought sent my anxiety into overdrive.
In the weeks leading up to my daughter’s birth, I couldn’t fathom not enjoying motherhood, yet after her arrival, I found joy elusive. Every attempt to feign happiness magnified my guilt and sorrow. Moments that once filled my heart with love now brought only anxiety. Reading my son’s bedtime story, a cherished ritual, became unbearable. I longed to escape the confines of his room, feeling suffocated by the expectation to be joyful.
I questioned whether getting pregnant again had been a mistake. As I looked down at my tiny baby, whose resemblance to me was striking, a wave of guilt crashed over me. I wept for the person I once was.
My partner, Mark, stepped in to take charge of household duties. He cared for our children, ensured we were fed, packed preschool snacks, and encouraged me to take time for myself. He handled bath and bedtime routines, holding me as I cried. He recognized that something was profoundly wrong and contacted my doctor. He reassured me that everything would be okay, though I struggled to believe him. All I could cling to was the hope that things might improve someday.
When I met with my doctor, she was compassionate and understanding. Diagnosing me with postpartum depression and postpartum OCD, she suggested treatment. I hesitated about medication affecting my dwindling milk supply, as breastfeeding was my lifeline to feeling like a connected mother. I held onto it as if it were a lifeboat.
Eventually, I agreed to a low dose of medication compatible with breastfeeding. After a few weeks, the fog began to lift. My anxiety diminished, and I gained better control over intrusive thoughts. Most importantly, when I laughed at my son’s silly antics, it was genuine—a deep, heartfelt laugh that made me want to scoop him into a bear hug. The first toothless smiles from my two-month-old began to mend my spirit.
Those days marked some of the scariest and most challenging moments of my life. While I still feel anxiety creeping in and mourn my birth experience, I recognize that through adversity, growth is possible. I now have a renewed appreciation for my children and my husband’s unwavering support. I empathize deeply with others facing postpartum depression and mental health challenges. This journey has ignited a passion within me to assist new mothers, revealing a strength I never knew I had.
I’ve got this.