Postpartum Evolution

My son turned two yesterday. Hard to believe that it’s been two years since I became a mom. It seems like it was just yesterday that I was staring at a positive pregnancy test with tears in my eyes trying to laugh my way through the utter shock (and pain) with his father and God dad.

I remember the first day I brought him home from the hospital, he was so tiny (5 lbs., 15 oz.), that I was actually petrified to hold him. That tiny 5 pound baby who cried all night has now grown into a 2 foot, 30 pound stubborn terrorist, who still in fact cries all night , only this time I am not afraid to man handle him - joking!

While I am celebrating my son’s existence this week, I am also celebrating my victory at overcoming some of the darkest days of my life while fighting through Postpartum Depression. The last 730 days forced me to challenge my postpartum depression, anxiety, resentment and suicidal thoughts. I tried my best to hide how dark it really was for me, I guess you can say it was a combination of embarrassment and as fear of being judged and misunderstood, but the people closest to me could see through my poker face and would begin to call my bluff. I was not myself following the birth of my son - I was angry, sad, depressed ( I was depressed prior to childbirth, but this depression was different), unmotivated, and unkind to everyone around me, but mostly myself. Although they were able to recognize something was off, I was able to convince them for months and months, that I was okay. I mean, from the outside looking in, it seemed great. My son was well taken care of, he was happy and healthy and I appeared to be the same. And it worked, until it all fell apart.

I was admitted to a behavioral hospital for 6 days, and it was that moment that I realized myself, I was in way over my head and could not keep sweeping this under the rug. I had completely stopped taking my antidepressants, and going to therapy. I was a ticking time bomb, and it was only a matter before the fuse went off - and unfortunately when it blew, it was UGLY. Luckily for me, things did get better over time. With the help of licensed professionals, family and friends, two career changes, and my own desire/want to be a healthy and happy mom - because the reality is, no mater how much support you have and how hard your environment is going for you, YOU have to show up for you as well and want it just as bad as they do.

If there is anything I’ve learned in the last two years, its that parenting is hard. AS FUCK. But it shouldn’t be impossible. It is mentally, emotionally, physically and at times financially draining. The first 16 months of motherhood felt impossible to me, because I would limit the help I was being offered. I didn’t want to feel like a burden, plus I wanted to prove that I was cut out to be a mom. That neither God, myself and my son’s father made a mistake by deciding to have this child. The help was there, but I only accepted it 45% of the time. Working a 9-5, then coming home to work your 5-9 as a parent with no in-house began to take a toll on me. Cooking, cleaning, looking after a small child, while still finding time to take care of your self was not feasible for me. I went through many trials and errors to find a routine/groove that worked for me but no matter how hard I tried, there just was not enough time in the day to do it all. But it wasn’t just the day. It was the week, the month. Time was passing by and I couldn’t manage to get a grip of my reality to enjoy anything in life. I chalked this up to being a bad mom. I believed that I wasn’t cut out for the job. I believed I was failing and would force myself to overly capture moments with my son for the internet’s validation that I was actually doing a decent job — looking back on it, that was very silly of me. I had been (and still am) doing my best, and have always been an exceptional mother.

I began OBSESSING over what the “perfect” mother looks like — this was nothing but comparison to other moms I’d see on the internet. For some illogical reason, I convinced myself that the root of my postpartum depression was simply that I wasn’t doing a good job (WRONG, it was deeper rooted than that). I couldn’t figure out for the life of me, what these Instagram and TikTok moms were doing that I wasn’t. How the fuck did they have enough time in the day to cook, clean, go to the gym, parent, drink wine, get their nails done, go to the park and NOT lose their mind? It wasn’t after my 6 day emotional vacation, that I realized the key to this level of ‘success’ in parenting — self care. I had denied my own needs for so long in order to do more for my son, that it sabotaged my own (mental) health in the process, but ironically, it was only when I learned to care for myself that parenting stop feeling impossible. I spent 6 days away from the outside world with zero access to anything other than the people inside the facility with me - at the time it was the hardest and some of the loneliest six days of my life. I wasn’t allowed to have visitors due to COVID, there was no cellphones, no computers, no internet. Just myself, the hospital staff and other patients. Oh yeah, and a TV. There was ONE TV to be shared amongst the 20 plus girls. The first day or so was extremely rough. I cried majority of those days and avoided talking to the group of lovely ladies who were in my unit. However, by the time I was discharged, there was surprisingly a mixture of emotions - of course I was ready to leave and get home, but I felt an odd sadness. For the first time in YEARS, and not just since becoming a mom, I’m talking pre mommy days, I was able to decompress, wind down and relax with zero distractions. I meditated, did Yoga, I journaled, I even read an entire book in less than 2 days. I left with an effective plan from my case worker, new meds from my psychiatrist, healthier coping ways from the counselors leading our group therapy sessions, and a new outlook on things. Upon getting discharged, I made a vow to my loved ones, my son, and most important myself to care for me and to be more present, dedicated, knowledgeable, patient, and kind.

Caring for myself meant taking my medicine again, not only accepting help, but asking for it, and making sure to ask before I got to a breakdown. It also meant going to the gym regularly, setting goals, limiting my activity on social media and/or completely deactivating from time-to-time. It meant to stop comparing myself to other moms, to rebuild my relationship with myself, accepting that I was only one person who could not do everything, and lastly, to not beat myself up over things that are not in my control.

As I enter my second year of motherhood, and my sixth month of recovery from PPD, I am at peace. I am happy, and I am in-love with my life, including the flaws and hardships of parenting. In order to be the best mother I can, I am building my foundation for self-care/love and community-care from my village so that harder days are still possible. A lot of people experience PPD and will put in their heads they were not their selves. However, I believe the seeds of my truest self were planted during those times, and just as a seed looks nothing like the flower it will blossom to be, I too was unrecognizable. You have to nurture and pour into yourself, cut down to the roots and allow yourself the proper nutrients and care to regrow and blossom.