Lost Leave: A Tale of Taming Postpartum Anxiety & Depression

[Editor’s Note: In today’s guest post, Jen Bullet shares an encouraging story of how her doctors supported her through Postpartum Anxiety with medication, time, and reassurance. It’s important to share these success stories to ease the fears of moms initially seeking care. -Jenna]

Lost Leave: A Tale of Taming Postpartum Anxiety & Depression -postpartumprogress.com

When you return to work, everyone asks you if it is tough to leave your baby. I have perfected my answer to this question. I say that it is bittersweet. Which it is. As much as I miss Max, my three-month-old son, I also am excited to be back at work, and gaining back a little bit of the “me” I used to be.

My answers start to be less perfected when people ask me how my maternity leave was. How do I answer this question without fully disclosing the experience I had? Does anyone really want to hear that I struggled with what seemed like debilitating Postpartum Anxiety—a sibling to Postpartum Depression? Do people really care that my body was in a state of constant panic, and that I suffered through weeks of insomnia? Can I actually tell people that I felt nervous all the time … or that it seemed like a stranger was trapped in my body? Would people look at me funny if I said I barely made it through each day and sometimes had to count the hours or minutes until my husband came home?

That is the reality of at least half of my maternity leave. I existed in a state of panic. I felt like I had adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I had a pit in my stomach at all times. I had to sleep with an ice pack at night to soothe my burning chest. My arms and legs tingled relentlessly. I spent most of my days worrying. Would I be able to sleep tonight? If I didn’t sleep, would I be able to take care of Max tomorrow? What would happen if I couldn’t take care of Max? I worried all night long. I lay awake even as Max slept. My mind just wouldn’t shut off.

I would get up at two in the morning and feed Max. When he would go back to sleep, I would go back to bed and try to sleep as well, but sleep wouldn’t come. Soon the birds would be chirping, and Max would be up again for a 5:00 AM feeding. My day would begin. I would think to myself, “How will I ever make it to 6:30 PM?” I would struggle through the day. I would struggle through the next day, and the day after that.

During this time, I emailed my OBGYN asking her if I could take an over-the-counter sleep aid. I was nervous about breastfeeding and taking medications. She said yes. The first night I took it, it worked. The second night, it did not work, and it didn’t work after that. I called her after several days of no sleep. I was at the end of my rope.

Is there anything else I can take? She said I could try a pain reliever with a sleep aid included, but she said we may need to explore prescriptions. My six-week-postpartum appointment was coming up the following week, and we agreed to discuss further in that appointment.

But then I emailed her over the weekend. Something was really wrong; I needed help. She sent me the name of a counselor and said we would discuss medications at my appointment.

Not surprisingly, I “failed” my Edinburgh Postpartum test. Someone else might have scoffed at the term failure used by my doctor. However, I appreciated her candor. I was definitely not myself. In the short-term, she prescribed me a prescription strength sleep aid and an anti-anxiety medication. She also put me on an antidepressant. She said it would take two weeks for the medication to start working.

So now, in addition to worrying about whether or not I could sleep, I started worrying about how the medications I was taking might affect my breastfeeding. I rarely take prescriptions. I’m just not a pill person. So this was a shock to my personal sensibilities. My days were still filled with dread, nervousness, and constant mind chatter. I would tell myself that I just needed to make it to two weeks, and the medication would kick in. It took closer to five weeks, and two increased dosages for me to even out. Taking anti-depressants is not a magic fix.

My recovery truly started the day after my six-week-postpartum OB exam. It was a Friday, and I had my first appointment with Bridget, a counselor at The Blossom Method. I literally don’t think I would be whole again had it not been for her. I joke with my mom that everyone needs a Bridget in their lives. Week by week, she helped me build coping strategies and coached me to live in the moment—and stop envisioning the worst-case scenario.

She encouraged me to break my days into three hour chunks. Instead of jumping ahead and letting my mind start to worry about something that might or might not happen, I should train myself to stay present in each three hour chunk of time. She also encouraged me to see a psychiatrist who had experience in perinatal mood disorders. Dr. Venable tried several different medications and finally found a combination which helped me sleep, stay calm and, eventually, even out.

We often hear about how broken our healthcare system is. I know that in many instances it is, and I am lucky to have excellent insurance. I know that I am privileged. That said, I was amazed at how supportive and responsive the healthcare community was to my situation. Dr. Venable, Dr. McNair—my OBGYN—and Bridget would get back to me on weekends, at night, and other inconvenient times. They tried to calm my nerves about taking medication and breastfeeding. They helped me understand that treating mom meant that Max was getting better care.

I also asked the pediatrician about the drugs I was taking and feeding Max. He echoed the sentiments shared by my other doctors. I felt like I had a team of people—including my incredibly supportive husband and family—all focused on helping me succeed. I used every skill I had learned in the business world to drive my progress forward: follow-up, take action and try again when I failed.

What I have learned about Postpartum Anxiety and Depression is that there is no easy fix. It takes work. You will take one step forward and then two steps back. You will need to be aggressive about seeking help. This is not something you should try to muscle through on your own. When you do seek help, you will find amazing support systems and medical care. You will also make it back to baseline and once again feel comfortable in your own skin. You will be the amazing mother that your child loves so dearly.

My final observation is that so many women struggle with postpartum challenges, and yet we hardly ever talk about it. It makes me sad to think that there are women out there struggling alone and too embarrassed or ashamed to share with others. I wish we could paint a real picture of what those first few months are like, because they are equal parts wonderful and challenging.

Bridget had me take the Edinburgh test the first day I saw her. Initially, I scored a 25 out of 30. Failure, indeed. A few weeks ago, she had me take it again. I scored a 5. I’m not on certain medications anymore.

I’ve read lots of stories about women who have struggled with a number of different postpartum challenges, many of them much more difficult than mine. I am reminded of how strong women are, and how able they are to overcome adversity. I also know that I don’t regret for one moment having my son. I only regret not being able to fully appreciate what I now look back on as my lost maternity leave.

~Jen Bullet

Realizing I Needed Help for Postpartum Anxiety

[Editor’s Note: Today’s guest post comes from Katie Collins. With a history of anxiety, she knew she might experience a postpartum mood and anxiety disorder, but it wasn’t until the birth of her second child that things spiraled out of control. Trigger Warning: Katie discusses her Intrusive Thoughts. -Jenna]

Realizing I Needed Help for Postpartum Anxiety -postpartumprogress.com

It’s easy to think everyone except you has it together when you look at social media. Most of us only post the good stuff. While I was going through one of the darkest parts of my life, many people who saw my photos online told me that my life seemed perfect, that I was such a good mom, that my family was picture perfect.

In retrospect, the truth is that I was trying to capture the happy moments in photos and cling to them like a life raft because I felt like I was drowning in my own anxiety. I have experienced generalized anxiety for all of my adult life, but my anxiety exploded after my second son was born. I am sharing my story with that hope that other moms who are going through the same thing will see that it’s not uncommon, and you are not the only one who is struggling.

I felt like I was really good at this parenting thing when I only had one child. I could handle Michael’s typical toddler unreasonableness and tantrums with patience, I never yelled at him, and I viewed his strong emotions as a good project or challenge to work on. I really enjoyed using strategies I had read about to help him learn to deescalate or to gain his cooperation without having to use threats or bribes. I loved coming up with new art and play ideas for us to do together. I followed lots of attachment parenting sites on Facebook and read article after article about helping my child grow and thrive in a gentle and supportive way. Mike, my husband, was on board with this style of parenting and agreed with most of the ideas and strategies I shared with him. As a family, we were all generally happy.

When I got pregnant with our second child, I felt nervous because I knew that my anxiety would resurface. I could already feel it bubbling beneath my skin during my third trimester. Can I really handle two kids? How will I get them out the door in the morning? How do you put a newborn and a toddler to bed? Can I still make it to yoga twice a week, knowing that I won’t want to leave my new baby long enough to go to a class? Can we really afford daycare tuition for two? What if Michael gets jealous and angry when his new brother arrives? These might sound like normal worries, but the amount of time and energy I spent obsessing over them was not normal. [Read also: The Endless “What-Ifs” of Postpartum Anxiety.]

Fast forward to three months after I became a mother of two: I just started working again. I had only recently started getting over my fear of Jack dying before I got to know his personality. I felt guilty about sending him to daycare at such a young age and hoped that he wouldn’t get confused and think that his daycare teacher was his mommy, too.

At work, I felt like a sub-par teacher because my priorities had changed again and I felt less concerned with my job because the rest of my life was consuming me. Michael learned to yell at the dog because he heard me doing it so often. My husband cooked dinner most nights because I didn’t have the mental or physical energy to do it anymore.

I wasn’t getting enough sleep. I yelled. Sometimes I threw things. I often wanted to sneak upstairs and shut the bedroom door and just not think or talk to anyone for ten minutes. If both of my children needed my attention at the same time, there was a 50/50 chance I would end up crying. I couldn’t pay attention to one child without feeling guilt about not interacting with the other. I felt so disconnected from my two year old because my baby needed so much attention, and yet I felt like I was ignoring my baby because even though I wore him in the carrier all afternoon, I didn’t think I was interacting with him enough.

In general, I put a lot of pressure on myself to do things “right.” I had adjusted fairly well to being a mom of one child, but the pressure was magnified when I became a mom of two. I was always upset with my perceived failures. I yelled at my two year old? Fail. I let him watch YouTube so I could rest for a bit? Fail. We ate frozen burritos for dinner instead of cooking a real meal? Fail. On a good day, I just felt wracked with guilt. On a bad day, I cried because I kept thinking about that time we were admonished about my oldest son’s screen time, which means that I’m not the only one with an irrational worry about his exposure to technology, and maybe his brain really IS going to rot away and it will be because I can’t handle having two kids.

That kind of thought process is called “catastrophizing.” When one bad thought or event colors your entire existence and you’re pretty sure that everything is ruined, forever. It sounds so absurd when I put it into words, but that’s what my brain is always telling me—every slip up, conflict, or struggle has negatively impacted the rest of my life. Sometimes I can tell when I’m doing it, and sometimes I can’t. I’ve spent so many years thinking this way that it’s hard for me to tell the difference between rational and irrational fears.

The worst part was the intrusive thoughts. Intrusive thoughts are upsetting thoughts that constantly enter your mind even though you would never, ever want them. They were upsetting but manageable before I had children. Once I had beautiful, innocent, and helpless babies to protect, my brain was always coming up with worst case scenarios or creating situations to fear. When I hugged my newborn, I would find myself thinking about him being smashed by some invisible force. Every single time I carried him on the stairs, I pictured myself falling and breaking him. When he gazed at me while he nursed, I saw his precious eyes being lacerated by some invisible blade. I think his fragility terrified me, but I don’t know why my mind would be so traitorous that it would give me those awful, awful visuals.

One of the worst recurring intrusive thoughts was Jack’s little head being smashed by a hammer. My heart quickens and I get a lump in my throat as I write this. There was a hammer on top of a high cabinet in my hallway that I walked by every day. I hadn’t gotten around to putting it away after some project or another. I loved my sweet baby, so why was my mind using that hammer to harm him? I was sure that I was a terrible person because my brain was capable of coming up with such violent thoughts. The hammer appeared in my thoughts so often that I sometimes cried because I was so emotionally exhausted from trying to ignore it.

I would look at my two boys in the bathtub at night and think, “I should be so happy. This is what I wanted. Why can’t I just be happy?” I’m ashamed by how inept I suddenly felt once I was expected to function in the world as a mother of two.

What was so hard about it? I had two healthy kids. I had a job to return to that allowed me to provide for my family. My husband switched his gym schedule so he could be home with us after work. Jack was relatively easy to please. Breastfeeding was going smoothly. Michael was a typical toddler. Yet I felt like I was going to explode.

I was exhausted from worrying, planning, and over thinking all day. I was so, so tired of trying to block out my intrusive thoughts. At the same time, I was also full of pent-up, anxiety-driven energy. My house had to be clean and organized or I had this feeling that everything in my life was unresolved and unfinished. There were things I had to do and I had to do them immediately and maybe THEN I could relax. I would lay awake at night, trying to figure out what I forgot to do because I was so sure there were things I should’ve done. There was always a to-do list posted in the kitchen but my house was never clean or organized enough, so that feeling never went away.

I started to worry about how my behavior was influencing my children. I felt like a hypocrite when I yelled or threw things in frustration because that meant I had to talk to my two year old later in the day to remind him that throwing things is not a good choice, even though he saw Mommy do it. I told him that I would try to make better choices next time, which made me feel like such a sad example of a parent. But, the last thing I needed was for him to start acting like me, so I kept owning up to my mistakes.

If it weren’t for this worry about influencing my children, I may have just stayed in the maelstrom of my brain and carried on. I don’t remember when I decided that I had to make some changes. It might’ve been one of the days when I sat on the kitchen floor and cried, which always brought on concerned questions from my oldest. “You sick, Mommy? Why you cryin’? You sad?” It was so hard to answer these questions because the answer could not be easily put into words, and it surely couldn’t be understood by a toddler.

I made the terrifying leap of asking for help—admitting that my brain was so messed up that neither I nor my husband can help me. That simply loving my children and being grateful for their existence was not enough to get me out of the darkness. That no amount of yoga could help me regain my usual level of patience. That things weren’t going to get better on their own unless I did something different.

I started seeing a therapist. Her children are a few years older than mine, so she could relate to many of my struggles, but she also had a motherly kind of nature towards me. She helped me begin to separate reality from fiction and to see that I am unnecessarily harsh on myself. Through working with her, I discovered changes that I could make that would allow me to find balance again.

I already knew that my hormones were partly to blame for what I was going through, but it helped to learn from where the intrusive thoughts came. She explained to me that mothering instincts are in overdrive during the postpartum period, and when those instincts are combined with a propensity for anxiety, your brain can play a nasty trick on you by surveying all possible threats and making you aware of them so you can make sure they don’t happen. This is where my intrusive thoughts come from. It sounded far-fetched, but I did find some research to support that idea. I also read that when mothers have these intrusive thoughts about harm coming to their babies, it does not mean that we will hurt our children. It only means that we are terrified of our children getting hurt. When I understood the cause of the thoughts, I started to shift my reaction to them to lessen their power over me, and they slowly began to decrease.

I’ve also finally accepted the truth that I need to take care of myself before I can take care of others. I aim to get to yoga at least once a week, which is not nearly enough, but it’s a start. When Jack was around a year old, I also started running and I swear I can actually feel my anxiety decrease with every step. Running is easier to fit into my schedule than yoga classes, and I know that I can take the edge off of escalating anxiety by going out for a run. More recently, I’ve been working on saying “no” to things and people that will put me over my edge.

I unfollowed many parenting pages on Facebook when I realized that they made me feel guilty and inadequate and didn’t teach me anything groundbreaking. Many of them focused on not yelling at your kids, not rushing them, and getting them to cooperate without bribery and threats. I know all I need to know about these topics, but now I see that sometimes I’m going to yell, and that’s okay. Sometimes I’m going to rush my preschooler out the door in the morning, and that’s okay. And sometimes, when my son doesn’t want to clean up his toys and I’m too damn tired to gain his cooperation by making it a super-fun game, I’m going to tell him that he’ll lose his TV time unless he cleans up. Yeah, because he watches tv, and that’s okay, too.

I’ve also started to make some small changes around the house to make life easier. Most of the changes involve releasing control and giving myself permission to stop striving for perfect. I now understand that I want an orderly kitchen when my mind is in disarray. I realized that I was holding my husband up to unrealistic standards because I wanted my kitchen so clean that my mind would stop racing, but that simply wasn’t possible. When my sink is overflowing with dishes, there are fingerprints on the refrigerator, and the floor is littered with trains, I am now less likely to spiral into a manic cleaning spree and more likely to decide what’s most important at the moment. I still loathe going to bed with any kind of mess in the kitchen, but I’m now more likely to take care of just the essentials and then go play with the boys. I also hired a house cleaner to come once or twice a month and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. For a long time, I said a house cleaner was not in the budget, but she is worth every penny for the sanity she provides.

Each of these strategies are what my psychiatrist calls “the real work” of taming an anxiety disorder. Shifting my perspective, carving out time for self-care, learning to say no, a yoga practice, exercise. I knew all of these things would be essential to my escape from postpartum anxiety, but I could not engage in them until I found a medication that helped me reach a place where I was able to do this “real work.” I don’t even take Tylenol when I have a headache, but I came to realize that an SSRI is necessary for my well-being, at least for the time being.

By nine months postpartum, I was still getting intrusive thoughts once or twice a day, but I was usually able to brush them off and move on. I rarely yelled. I hadn’t thrown anything or cried in a couple months. I was once again able to wait out most of Michael’s tantrums. I tried new recipes a couple times a week. Sometimes I had the mental energy to make clean-up a super fun game. My thoughts had slowed enough that I could appreciate any yoga class, rather than seeking out hot power classes as a way to wring all the bad energy and tension out of my mind. I stopped biting my nails. I had started to sing and dance with my kids again, which was a sure sign that the old me was returning.

I still feel itchy on the inside when my kitchen is messy. I can’t fully relax until a certain level of neatness has been achieved. I still regard my dog as a furry, loud anxiety trigger and nothing else. I still feel as if I will never find balance when it comes to the attention I give each boy. Despite all this, I feel that I have emerged from my postpartum anxiety with a better understanding of myself and what I need in order to feel balanced and content.

Today I found the notebook I carried around with me to take notes for my therapy and psychiatry appointments last winter. There are only about ten entries, each one a laundry list of my current concerns and symptoms: racing thoughts, restlessness, can’t sleep, intrusive thoughts, nausea, fear about one thing or another. Reading through my notes, I see how far I have come. I almost can’t believe that was my life. Last winter was the most difficult season of my life. On top of my personal issues, we had so much snow that many places were unrecognizable or inaccessible. We were stuck in our houses, thrown off our routines. Looking back, I see the weather as a reflection of my circumstances: the warm, fertile earth was still there, but it was buried under layers upon layers of cold, unforgiving snow. I remember walking in to work one spring morning and noticing how different the grounds looked without snow because I had gotten so used to everything being obscured by mounds of white. I thought to myself, “The grass was still under there. The flowers will bloom again. The old me can come back, too.”

Although the “old me” has not returned, I do believe a more resilient and self-reflective person has appeared in her place. I have been experiencing social anxiety and general anxiety for around twenty years, yet I have only recently begun to truly understand the way my brain works. After surviving my postpartum anxiety “explosion,” I believe that I have the understanding, tools, and confidence to overcome anything that my brain chemicals or life situations might send my way in the future.

~Katie Collins

Getting Out of the Dark Room of Postpartum Depression

[Editor’s Note: Today we have an inspiring guest post from Melissa Anderson. She shares her story and some hope for other Warrior Moms. -Jenna]

Getting Out of the Dark Room of Postpartum Depression -postpartumprogress.com

My pregnancy wasn’t “normal.”

I had Hyperemesis Gravidarum the first few months. Those months were spent in a very dehydrated state, excessive vomiting, IVs for fluids, and rotating so many medicines. I thought the worst was over when that went away, but I developed Gestational Hypertension at 25 weeks and remained on bed rest the remainder of pregnancy, battling the development of Preeclampsia until I was induced at 37 weeks. I also lost my oldest brother during this time. It was hard.

I then truly thought the worst would be over after that. But, no. Life had more in store for me; struggles with breastfeeding, baby developing severe jaundice and was admitted to the hospital, lip and tongue ties, more breast feeding issues, severe back problems from atrophied muscles due to bed rest.

Then, the worst.
The most heartbreaking.
The most painful.
Postpartum Depression and Anxiety.

So often I hear that women who have struggled with PPD/A waited a long time before getting help because they were ashamed.

I was ashamed.

Why?

I’ve asked myself that question, and decided it was because I felt ashamed that I wasn’t this “perfect” mother. I already didn’t have a “perfect” pregnancy and didn’t want to trouble anyone or talk about how “imperfect” I still was.

Guess what I had to remind myself:
No one is perfect.

What helps me is just reminding myself that it’s not a choice to feel this way. I can’t just magically decide to be happy and “poof” I am. But I can make the choice to seek treatment and to strive to get better.

Not too long ago I was trying to think of a way I could explain what it feels like to my husband who has never experienced depression.

I told him it’s like waking up in a huge dark room and you don’t even know how you got there. It’s so dark; you can’t even see your hand in front of your face. It’s so dark; you aren’t really even sure you’re there. Because how can it possibly be that dark? Is this really real?

You’re trying to feel all along the walls of this huge, massive dark room to find a light switch (the light switch is a metaphor for the medicine, counseling, support group, and any other treatment). You finally find the switch, but it’s not a flip on/off switch. It’s a dimmer. It will only let you turn it up a little bit at a time. It’s really hard to turn too, so you get exhausted from trying so hard and you need lots of breaks.

Then from out of nowhere objects start hitting the switch (symbolic of the things life throws at you, phrases people say that may hurt your feelings, and so on). And you can’t stop or control these things. Sometimes things hit the switch just right that it dims it down some. It’s a long, exhausting battle between the objects hitting the dimmer and you finding the energy and strength to get up and try with all your might to turn the lights brighter.

Eventually it should be bright enough to where you can make out the door in this huge room and finally get out.

That really helped him to understand what I’m going through and it helps me realize even if I’ve only done one small, good thing that day, it is helping to make it brighter in the room.

Every little bit counts.

Don’t let PPD/A rob you of enjoying Motherhood, of being happy, of being the best Mom you can be.

It’s okay.
Don’t be ashamed.
Talk about it.
Seek help and treatment.

We are Warriors and this is our battle; it’s happening right now.
Let’s fight together.
The bigger the number, the better the fight.
We will win.
We will overpower this darkness.
We will survive this together.

 

Guest Blogger: Melissa AndersonMelissa Anderson blogs at Finding Joy in This Journey, is a Mom to three=month-old Annabelle and wife to Nick. She currently lives in Utah but is a Southern girl at heart. She has a new passion to help other women understand and recognize perinatal mood and anxiety disorders, to encourage them to get the help they need, and to reduce stigma.

 
 
 

Don’t Be Silent: On Returning to Work with Postpartum Depression and Anxiety

Don't Be Silent: On Returning to Work with Postpartum Depression and Anxiety -postpartumprogress.com

After the births of each of my sons, I returned to work with postpartum depression and anxiety. Each time it looked and felt different. Looking back at both of them, it’s evident how my silence only prolonged my suffering when returning to work.

While pregnant with our first son, I adamantly declared how I would return to my job. Raised by a working mother, I saw no reason not to follow in her footsteps. I couldn’t understand why women left the work force after bringing new life into the world. I sat on my High Horse of Judgment and judged until the cows came home.

It’s funny what we believe to be judge-worthy before we ever experience it for ourselves, isn’t it?

My pregnancy complications landed me on Level III bed rest at 28 weeks, and my employer graciously paid me until our previously agreed upon time of 38 weeks. That ten weeks of pay helped in more ways than one, especially considering how I planned on taking my full 12 weeks of unpaid leave after birth.

I already felt a little stir crazy by the time our baby boy arrived at 38 weeks, 2 days, having been cooped up for ten weeks inside our medium sized apartment. I couldn’t wait to finally get out and do stuff, especially with my adorable baby in tow. I imagined all of the fun things we would do, how I would show him off, how I would rock this mother thing.

Then I had a panic attack while still in the hospital. Things kind of snowballed from there, and by the time 12 weeks rolled around, I found myself deep in the throes of postpartum depression and anxiety.

Another mom at work recommended a child care provider. She trusted her beautiful little girl with this woman, so I figured it a valid option. The woman was kind and loving and all the things you want for your tiny bundle of joy, but every day when I left my son in her care, I’d have a panic attack on the drive to work. Sometimes I’d sit in my car in the parking lot at work for 10-20 minutes trying to get my breathing and heart rate back under control. I’d walk in with raccoon eyes and blame it on the sleeplessness.

I didn’t tell anyone at work the thoughts swirling in my head; how I feared leaving him, feared the care giver’s house would catch on fire, feared we’d be in a wreck on the way home from work, feared he’d quit breathing in his sleep, feared anything and everything whether he was in my care or not. I didn’t tell coworkers or bosses, not even when my brain switched from fear about what might happen to my baby to fear about what I might do to myself. I kept quiet, plastered a smile on my face, and kept doing what I needed to get done.

About one month into my return to work, I sought out a therapist and psychiatrist and started to heal. I still didn’t love leaving my baby, but I could do so without nearly hyperventilating on the way to work. I could focus on work tasks again instead of catastrophizing all that might happen to my baby, to me, to the world.

I looked back at the past judgments I’d made on those who chose to stay home and silently asked for their forgiveness. I’d had no idea how hard motherhood could feel by itself, let alone with a perinatal mood disorder. I realized, as I started to get better, that all mothers are just trying to do the best by their babies and families. I promised to cut other mothers a little slack as I moved forward.

Note that I didn’t include myself in that, just other mothers. Not me.

By the time we decided to try for another baby, I found myself in an entirely different working environment. I worked from home as an editor, setting my own schedule. It allowed me to do fun things like take my toddler son to the library for story time and enjoy playdates with the few friends I had made in the area. I figured my postpartum phase would feel like a breeze.

No one is really shocked when I say that it wasn’t really a breeze.

Instead of taking 12 weeks of unpaid maternity leave, I took two weeks off. Two weeks. I look back at that and want to shake myself. I still don’t know if I felt that working would keep my increasingly anxious mind busy or if I wanted to prove that this time I would handle everything so much better.

I judged myself so hard this time around, feeling like I should better handle my “emotions” seeing as how I was now lucky enough to stay home with my two sons and still get paid. I had what others considered the best case scenario and there I was, too scared to carry the baby down the steps to play in the playroom with my toddler, too depressed to go anywhere or get dressed.

Still, I told no one.

I fought calling my therapist to schedule a new appointment the second time around because I so desperately didn’t want to be sick again. My work performance suffered, but I refused to tell my boss or coworkers what was going on with me. My marriage suffered, but I refused to discuss how bad I was struggling with my husband. My mental health deteriorated, but I figured I was just a bad mom so my thoughts were warranted.

When I finally made the call and got the help I needed, I couldn’t understand why I fought it for so long.

As moms, working out of the home, in the home, or staying home with our children, we put so much pressure on ourselves to be all and do all. The Supermom Complex often leaves us worse off than if we just said, “Hey, I need some help. I can’t do this all on my own.”

If I could do it all over again, I’d be more gentle with myself. I’d tell more people what I was going through, not just to spread awareness and break stigma, but to gain support from other people. When I wrote about my journey with postpartum depression and anxiety with our younger son after I was already out of the woods and so much better, friends asked, “Why didn’t you just tell me? I could have helped!” Support can make all the difference, but too often we’re silent because we think no one will understand. I feel like I cheated myself out of true support due to my silence.

You don’t need to keep your battle a secret, mama. Friends, family members, and people like us want to support you during your journey. You are not alone.