(I wrote this piece in 2016 when my daughter was seven months old. I recently revisited it and made a few light edits. Enjoy.)
When my daughter was born, I didn’t get stretch marks, but I did get postpartum depression. My body bounced back quickly, but my sense of well-being did not.
As days turned into weeks, and nights of broken sleep stacked haphazardly upon each other, my inner pendulum swung through a field of growing exhaustion and anxiety. I don’t know if the exhaustion created the anxiety, or if it would have come anyway, but the pairing left me feeling out of control. I knew that each low would be followed by a high, and worse, that each high would be followed by a low.
My inner body was a network of delicate webbing that reverberated with my daughter’s every sound. A cry from her tiny body plucked at this web, and my anxiety answered, rippling out in burning waves of nausea.
One afternoon, sitting on the living room floor, I heard her cry. I leapt to my feet as though hooked by a fishing rod, and was shocked by my involuntary, violent reaction. My body responded before my mind had a chance to process what had happened- and to realize that she was okay. Perhaps I should have prided myself on my powerful motherly instincts, but instead I felt jarred by the adrenaline still coursing through my body.
Karuna cried a lot. She cried after feeding. She cried after baths. She cried when the stroller stopped moving.
To stop her crying, I took long drives. In the early days, the car put her right to sleep. As she slept, I drove, tears rolling down my cheeks.
We took turns crying. And sometimes we cried together.
Some of my hardest days were the ones where I’d put her in the car to stop her crying even though I was utterly exhausted. More than anything, I wanted to sleep. But sleep was not to be had for me. Only the motion of the car would stop her crying. So I drove.
My exhaustion led to tears of desperation, which blurred my vision even more. A few times, I knew it was dangerous for me to be on the road, but I drove anyway. It put her to sleep.
Breastfeeding was painful. Toweling off after a shower was accompanied by my sharp intake of breath. Even the softest of patting around my nipples was shockingly sensitive. No one told me it would hurt like that.
The first time she latched on, I came off the bed in pain. In time, the intensity subsided, but the discomfort never went away. Her latch looked good and I tried a variety of positions, but my nipples were always raw.
Many times, I cried in frustration because I wanted to breastfeed my baby. But I would wince when she latched, and watch the clock all the way through the feeding. I wanted her to have enough, but I couldn’t bear more suckling than was necessary.
My nipples hurt, my body hurt, and I was utterly exhausted, but there was no restorative rest in sight.
By six weeks postpartum, my nervous system was shot. I reached out to my girlfriends for help, and they came out in droves. They held Karuna while I pumped. They took her for walks so I could shower. They brought me chocolate, tea and bath salts. They even pooled their resources so I could pay for childcare hours with an amazing doula.
One evening, my friend Karen called. I was driving Karuna around to stop her from crying. Karen had planned to invite me out for a walk, but when I told her that we were driving, she asked if I would mind whether she joined us.
Years earlier, Karen’s baby daughter had colic, so she understood and sympathized. She didn’t care that I had nothing glamorous to offer. She just wanted to support me.
I picked her up and we drove, cresting and descending the sunset hills of West Seattle. Karen shared stories of her own early motherhood while tears leaked from my eyes. Hearing her recall memories of her own daughter’s crying helped me feel less alone.
Sunglasses had shielded my red, puffy eyes as we drove, but when I returned Karen to her house, I took them off. I let her see me in my full, broken mess. This vulnerable revelation allowed me to take a deeper breath.
My friends showed up with such generosity, but still I needed help. When Karuna was seven weeks old, my mom offered to watch her so I could get out of the house. I took a shower and drove to Chaco Canyon, my favorite organic cafe. For weeks I had dreamt of sitting at one of those big wooden tables, a dirty chai in front of me and an open journal in my lap. On this day, my dream was coming true.
However, I couldn’t get in the zone. The feelings of freedom and creativity I had craved did not magically appear. The change in my outer circumstances did nothing to change my inner state of being. My heart felt like a heavy, dead stone. It was hard to breathe.
After trying to write my way out of my dark mood, I abandoned the effort and walked to the bathroom. I felt like I might be sick. I hit a low that day, squatting on the bathroom floor and rocking myself back and forth.
I can’t believe this is happening to me, I thought over and over. I cannot believe this is happening.
I had no idea how to make myself feel better. The freedom hadn’t helped. The dirty chai hadn’t even tasted good. Journaling, which always lifted my spirits, went nowhere. I could barely move the pen across the page. Shaking with silent tears, I continued to rock on the bathroom floor.
After a few minutes, I picked myself up, blew my nose, and walked out. My eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted. My face was white. I packed my things and left, barely saying goodbye to the friendly guy at the counter. I was afraid heavy sobs would escape my body if I paused.
That afternoon, I tried to take Karuna for a walk in the Ergo Baby. She cried as I strapped her to my chest, and she cried as I walked along the grey, windy beach. Half a block down, I gave up and turned around.
I felt like I was holding back a tidal wave of tears. If no one had been there to witness me, I would have screamed and screamed, then fallen to my knees and sobbed.
Instead, I turned around, walked back to the house, and slowly marched up the stairs. I unfastened the Ergo Baby and lifted Karuna out. My mom came into the living room with a hopeful expression on her face.
How was the walk? she asked.
It was okay, I said, tears rising in my throat.
Then I said the words I had been so afraid to say, words that had been forming within me for weeks.
I think I have postpartum depression.
My mom looked at me with compassion in her eyes and said, I think you might be right.
I started crying. That acknowledgment, first on my part and then on hers, opened a floodgate within me. I couldn’t stop crying for days.
I cried through my doctor visit the next day. I cried driving home to West Seattle. I managed not to cry as I picked up my prescription, but I started crying again as soon as I got in the car.
I cried often in the days that followed, but it felt therapeutic and cleansing. Along with my tears, I began to take a daily dose of Sertraline, a generic form of Zoloft. Within days, I began to notice the effect in my system. It was as though a golden ladder had descended from Heaven, and I was able to begin climbing out of the darkness, one rung at a time.
Slowly, I regained a sense of balance and trust- trust in myself, in the world, and in my ability to connect with Karuna and be a good mother.
In addition to the antidepressants, a number of things contributed to my healing.
I began taking long walks with Karuna. The movement and fresh air brought new, hopeful energy into my body.
I connected with an old friend who was like a baby whisperer, and she offered to watch Karuna several days a week. Having a few hours to write, get a massage or take a nap was like balm on my heart. Slowly, I began to feel normal again.
I began bringing Karuna into our bed so we could sleep together as a family. For the first few months, Drew and I had taken turns sleeping in the guest room so that one of us could get some sleep. But this was isolating and unnatural to me. Coming together in our family bed was the right decision. It helped foster a feeling of normalcy and connection.
I stopped nursing and began pumping my milk. This decision alone saved my sanity. The piercing needle-prick sensations in my nipples began to subside, and with that, my anxiety started to calm.
I returned to work one day a week, which was enough to help me feel connected to my old self and community.
Slowly but surely, I was feeling better.
Two months after I began taking Sertraline, I decided to get off. One of the side effects of the drug is that it makes you very tired. And I was. I was tired, spacey, and numbed out. Now that Karuna was sleeping better at night, I didn’t want to take a pill that contributed to further exhaustion.
I talked to my doctor and began to wean myself off. Initially, she recommended I stay on longer. She wanted to make sure I had stabilized. But I knew that I had, and I was ready to move on. I cut my dose to fifty percent for two weeks, then twenty five percent for two weeks, and then I came off entirely. It was the right choice. Every day was a little better than the day before.
I’m not perfect. I never was, but I did feel relatively stable and happy for many years. Having a baby destabilized me, and left me feeling lost, ungrounded, and afraid.
In the weeks after I began taking Sertraline, I felt shaken, like I had narrowly escaped a burning car. I wasn’t entirely sure that another disaster wasn’t waiting right around the corner.
But the healing has been steady. And with this new perspective I’ve gained, I have also learned that it is possible to bounce back, and in the return to grace, I embody more strength, wisdom, and compassion than before. I am a better human.
Tonight, I wrote the first few paragraphs of this essay with Karuna rolling on the bed beside me. This is huge, because in the beginning, motherhood felt all-consuming. I could barely eat a sandwich without her crying to be picked up. Part of my postpartum depression came from the shock of being so needed all the time. I was afraid I would never get my life back. But it’s coming back, bit by bit. And as it returns, it is richer because Karuna is in it.
Karuna is a chubby seven-month old now, and I love her so much. She is a happy, happy girl. She loves to bounce in her Johnny-Jump-Up, roll over, crawl, hold her bottle on her own, reach for our kitty cats, and look out the window. She is a joyful being.
She makes me laugh all the time. It occurred to me recently that the world is a funnier, happier place because Karuna is in it. We have come so far in seven months.
I share this piece of writing as on offering on my path of healing. No longer does it need to live inside of me, guarded by fear and embarrassment. In speaking my truth, I set it free. Now maybe it can benefit you, or someone else who reads this. I let this part of myself go. I grant her wings and set her free so that I can return to the present moment with a twinkle in my eye and beautiful dreams stirring in my heart.
I pulled a Goddess Card the other day. Doreen Virtue’s oracle deck is one of my favorites. In it, there are forty-four goddesses, each beautifully and artistically depicted.
Sitting cross-legged, I shuffled the deck and spread it into a smooth arc on the floor. As I performed this ritual, I offered my question to the goddesses~
Beautiful goddesses, I said. This has been a powerful, transformative year. I have been broken open, and now I am coming together in a new way. How can I continue to align with clarity, passion, love and appreciation?
I closed my eyes and waved my hand over the deck. When I felt inspired, I reached down and pulled a card. Opening my eyes, I looked down to see the Butterfly Maiden, Goddess of Transformation.
Her message spoke straight to my heart:
You are experiencing enormous change right now, which brings great blessings.
Indeed.
Post-Script:
Reading this in 2025, I am deeply touched by the girl I was. I have come so far. I have been remade into an entirely new woman.
Karuna is a vivacious, beautiful, creative, hilarious eight-year old. We snuggle every night. The first thing she says when she sees me is, ‘I love you.’
I love holding her beautiful, growing body against my own. Her soul pulsates through her with full, unguarded vitality. The love I feel for her is simple yet profound.
It is always interesting to go back in time and visit a former version of yourself. In this case, it has been healing for me. It reminds me that nothing is permanent, even those periods that feel dark and frightening. Eventually, we come through it all, and with a little luck, we are changed for the better.
Much love. Thank you for reading.
This was beautiful, raw and real. I so appreciate you sharing your journey and with the medication you took that helped you AND your friends. I got help but didn't go the medicine route or have supportive friends and continued to suffer causing longer term issues.
I just cried along with your 2016 version. There is so much here…I love that you shared this and are brave to do so. 💗💗💗