I’m not one to have uncomplicated births. The first time I laid eyes on my children was under the harsh lights of an operating room, feeling drowsy and anxious about the long recovery ahead. My journey into motherhood has been marked by significant challenges. Seven years ago, I faced severe complications after my son’s birth, and this year, shortly after welcoming my daughter, I suffered a stroke.
On June 27, 2015, just nine days post-delivery, I experienced a brain bleed. My precious daughter was nestled in my arms, swaddled and perfect, as I tried to nurse her in my favorite pink robe, when suddenly, I felt a chilling sensation creeping up my spine, twisting my head. At 34, my once radiant glow dimmed, and I began to lose my vision. I was having a stroke.
I awoke in the ICU, disoriented, blind, and without my baby. The comforting grip of my partner’s hand was the only reassurance in the disarray. I could hear voices—nurses whispering, my father’s worried tone—but my sight was gone. Questions bombarded me: “How many fingers am I holding up?” “What year is it?” “Who is the president?”
All I could feel was the ache of my swollen breasts. Where was my baby? Where was I?
A nurse gently unfastened my gown, exposing me as she attached a breast pump, draining the milk meant for my newborn who was still absent. In that moment, I felt the weight of my losses; it was the heartache of motherhood slipping through my fingers. Tears streamed down my face as the nurse quietly left, leaving me alone in my confusion and grief.
The next morning, a team of neurologists entered my room, their faces weaving in and out of focus, but slowly, I began to see more clearly. With each passing day, hope crept back into my life. I was moved to a step-down unit, where, finally, I held my daughter again. My husband placed her in my arms, and despite my frail appearance—IV lines and unkempt hair—I embraced the life I nearly lost.
The summer unfolded in a slow recovery. My first goal was simply to reach the end of the driveway without succumbing to fear. I learned to navigate my home, drove for the first time, and found the courage to be alone with my children while my partner returned to work. I was a living testament to postpartum depression (PPD) and PTSD.
My world was now filled with uncertainty. I feared for my children, terrified that I might collapse and leave them without a mother. I sat with these feelings, while friends and family assumed that my physical recovery meant I had moved on. They didn’t see the turmoil inside—the anxiety, guilt, and resentment brewing within me.
I watched as other mothers seemingly breezed through childbirth without a hitch, while I felt like a malfunctioning parent. In this new reality, I realized I needed help. I reached out for support, desperately seeking a place to land as I navigated the tumultuous waters of postpartum PTSD and depression.
I found refuge in therapy sessions and two postpartum support groups. Weekly check-ins with my doctor became a lifeline. I opened up to my friends and neighbors about my struggles, despite feeling vulnerable and exposed. I knew that to be the mother I wanted to be, I had to rebuild myself.
The initial weeks were riddled with panic; tears flowed freely during therapy. I sometimes fled from support groups, overwhelmed by my emotions. When my doctor reassured me that healing would take time, I dismissed the notion; I wanted immediate relief. However, trauma recovery isn’t a quick fix. I was reminded that even crawling forward is still progress, a sentiment that kept me moving.
In a society that often portrays perfect motherhood, I felt like a failure. Yet, I discovered that I was not alone. Many women face similar struggles, working hard to reclaim their lives for themselves and their children. Together, we formed a strong support system, lifting each other toward healing.
Through this journey, I uncovered resilience and grace within myself. I learned to help others who might be struggling, showing that our experiences of loss can lead to a stronger, more empowered self. My past does not define my future. In losing my sight, I gained a deeper understanding of what it means to truly see.
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In conclusion, healing from trauma is a journey filled with ups and downs, but with the right support, it is possible to emerge stronger than before.