Postpartum anxiety has taken so much from me. Reflecting on the early months of both my children’s lives brings a mix of joy and sorrow, a bittersweet reminder of the secret struggles I faced. My kids are now six and three, yet I still find myself writing this from behind a veil of tears.
Postpartum anxiety kept me from fully embracing the early days with my newborns, overshadowed by constant, overwhelming worry. While some anxiety is normal for new mothers, what I experienced was far more intense. For several months, I was engulfed by a fear so strong it would trigger physical responses in my body. I often found myself awake at night, timing my baby’s breaths with my phone’s stopwatch, sometimes doing this multiple times throughout the night.
This anxiety paralyzed me. When my second child faced feeding issues, I remember sitting on the shower floor, sobbing as I imagined the worst-case scenario. I convinced myself that my hyper-vigilance would protect my baby. I didn’t reach out for help, fearing others would think I was a threat to my child.
I deceived my husband, my family, my friends, and even my doctors. No one knew the turmoil inside my mind. During the day, I learned to mask my anxiety, finding fleeting moments of hope as the sun shone. But as night fell, I felt the familiar dread creeping in. When my husband would doze off and the house grew quiet, I would shake with anxiety. I often closed my eyes, only to be haunted by vivid nightmares of what could happen to my baby.
Each time I managed to drift off, I’d wake suddenly, gripped by the irrational fear that someone had taken my child. I would rush to check on my oldest, sometimes bringing him into our room for reassurance while I sat in the corner, watching over my sleeping family. Instead of relishing those moments, I lived them as if they could slip away at any moment.
As dawn broke, I’d finally feel a sense of relief, but it would be short-lived. I lost those precious early months to anxiety, not once, but twice.
Looking back, the joy of those days is intertwined with the constant terror instigated by my own mind. I endured this for six months with each child, until, quite suddenly, the fog began to lift. My anxiety still lingers, particularly after childbirth, and I wish I had sought help earlier.
Now, I’m pregnant again, excited yet apprehensive. I’m determined to avoid the dark cloud of anxiety that looms in my mind. This is my last chance to experience those early months positively, for my two children who deserve a mother capable of making sound choices, and for myself. I refuse to believe that I can simply power through another episode of mental health distress. I cannot will away my anxiety just as I cannot cure my PCOS or my psoriasis.
This time, I’m proactive. I candidly spoke with my husband about my previous struggles, and I saw his pain at the realization of my deception. I’ve opened up to my OB early in the pregnancy, and we’ve put a plan in place to manage my mental health better. He checks in on me at every appointment, and we’ll discuss options for post-birth treatment. I’ve also scheduled a visit with my primary care physician to ensure comprehensive support.
Postpartum anxiety has taken enough from me. While I can’t predict the future, I refuse to endure another episode without fighting back with all I have.
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In summary, postpartum anxiety has had a significant impact on my life as a mother. I wish I had been more open about my struggles, and as I prepare for my third child, I’m committed to addressing my mental health proactively. It’s time to break the silence and seek help.
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