Author’s Note: This is one of the most emotionally vulnerable things I’ve ever written. It is not a how-to. It is not a resolution. It’s the moment I realized I was still carrying trauma I didn’t choose, and that motherhood had forced me to finally face it. If you are a mother navigating fear, mental health struggles, or inherited pain—this piece is for you. You’re not broken. You’re brave. I pray you find the courage to speak up and get the help you need.
The Unplanned Postpartum Depression
After I had Matthew and Abigail, I had a startling awakening:
I wanted to live.
I’m not entirely sure I was living for anything—or anyone—before them.
But something about holding a tiny human in your hands,
Staring up at you with sparkling eyes—
Eyes that only peek open for now,
A squint that sends a mother’s heart spiraling with curiosity—
Curiosity about what’s behind the lens.
“What are you thinking, Love?”
I really want to know you.
But for now, we learn about each other in the quiet:
My skin brushes yours.
Your heartbeat thumps against mine.
The back of your head—
That baby fuzz that tickles my cheeks in the best way—
Creating a warmth that only the two of us can feel.
Smiles become greetings.
Discontent weeps call me to attention without a word.
Even my body responds—
Lactating breasts swelling before I can even get to you.
But even the most celebrated moments
Sometimes arrive under a blanket of dark clouds, don’t they?
I bet if most of us could find the magic wand,
The one we waved in wonder as children,
We’d put our most defining moments under a spell—
A spell of total joy.
A charming moment to soak it all in, uninterrupted.
That’s the pain of postpartum depression.
You waited.
You anticipated.
You witnessed a miracle.
Everyone is smiling—
But your chest suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
This part looks different for everyone.
For me, it was a moment of elation
Quickly deflated by a mirror of truth:
I wasn’t just living for the next breath anymore.
His face—
The face that was a perfect mix of his dad and me—
Proved that I had a purpose here.
I didn’t just want to be here anymore—
I needed to be.
Suddenly, my childhood flashed in front of my eyes.
It felt like passing out during a house fire—
Waking up to smoke, coughing.
Ignorance only lasts for a minute.
Then you finally understand:
You better run like hell.
Flashbacks to a childhood.
A sick motherhood.
Breast cancer that didn’t discriminate against 28.
A nine-year-old wondering why my mom doesn’t have any hair—
And why all the other moms do.
Why does my mom cry at night?
What does she mean when she says they made a mistake?
What is a swollen milk duct?
What is a tumor?
What is medullary carcinoma, stage 3?
Why is a tumor in the same grade as me?
Suppression delayed depression.
Everyone around me is smiling.
But the house is smoldering.
And I can’t tell anyone.
I can’t bring myself to explain:
All the mammograms I skipped.
All the tanning beds I charred myself in for vanity.
All the abnormal test results that came back—
That I never followed up on.
The truth is:
If it’s too late for me…
It’s too late for the life that depends on me.
The only answer I had was prayer:
God, I know you’re up there.
If you can hear me,
Please, help me!
I’m sinking in a silent battle.
I don’t want to burden anyone,
But I don’t know how to fight this without alarming everyone.I’m processing trauma—
Trauma that knocked on the door uninvited,
And I was forced to open it.
Avoidance won for so long.
Truth arm wrestles me with the upper hand.
Where do I put the question marks that frighten me?A note of hope:
Want to know what helped me through the aftermath? Read the post that followed—my tribute to Kara Tippetts, and the power of loving intentionally.
If this moved you, there’s more like it on the blog. Keep reading. Keep healing.
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