Baby Blues…ish?

Dear Reader,

I know it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: my experience is not universal. Everyone’s journey is unique to their circumstances. Don’t feel discouraged if you reach milestones at a different pace than others. Take whatever you read and hear with a grain of salt—let it guide you, not define you.

I also want to acknowledge that some of what I share may seem repetitive if you’ve read my other posts. That’s because this particular experience has been difficult for me to put into words. My last edit was June 13th, so that should clue you in. I’ve struggled to find the right way to express it, and I’ve often revisited this post before sharing it with you. 

I’m glad that people are becoming more transparent about pregnancy and postpartum experiences. It’s refreshing to see that people can now voice their struggles with something they wanted—especially parenthood. If you look at us now, you might not believe there was a time I struggled to embrace motherhood. But one day, like the flip of a switch, I became enamored. My heart felt like it would explode because how can anyone truly describe what it feels like to love their child? There’s nothing in this world that compares. I would lay down my life for her in a heartbeat.

To those who have reached out on behalf of family, hoping to be a good support system, and to new and soon-to-be mothers—I see you, and you’ve got this. I won’t lie, though. I’ve cried while breastfeeding, lived in the same clothes for days, covered in baby vomit. I’ve convinced myself that any time I’m away from my daughter, someone will kidnap her—even if she’s just in the next room. So, if I make it look easy, I apologize because that’s far from the truth. I’m battled postpartum depression and anxiety, on top of chronic migraines. It’s not always beautiful here.

My pregnancy wasn’t what I expected from start to finish, but that’s a story for another day. I learned all I could about postpartum depression and the fourth trimester, terrified by the stories I’d heard and the things I’d seen. I stocked up on maternity pads and breast pads, my family ensured I had food to keep up milk production, and my chosen family visited me daily in the hospital. On paper, all the boxes were checked, right?

Wrong. Yoh. So, so wrong.

I didn’t account for the emotional side of things—not in the way it actually hit me. I had an emergency c-section, and everything happened so fast yet felt so slow. There’s nothing quite like being wheeled through an open hospital with nothing but a scratchy blanket and a urinary catheter between you and your dignity. Truly, nothing like it.

As my cousin told me at the beginning of my pregnancy, I had to surrender my body. And it’s true—it stopped being mine the day those two lines confirmed I was pregnant. I’ll spare you the details of the operation, but I kept waiting for that moment. You know, the one all mothers talk about—that instant rush of unconditional love, the overwhelming emotion. But my biggest fear came true: that feeling never came. Not immediately, not for quite some time. When I heard her strange little cry, I wondered if it was real—if she was real. It felt like I was watching a movie from that operating table.

I just wanted to fall in love with her, to connect, anything to make it feel real. To make matters worse, I only got a glimpse of her before they took her away. She was undeniably pink, with yellow gunk in her eyes. Just an alien, really. Not a single bone in my body registered that she was my alien.

They wheeled me to the maternity ward, and in my drug-induced haze, I vaguely recall asking a doctor when I’d get to see “the baby”—I couldn’t even call her mine. She was just “the baby,” and I was reminded each time I asked that I couldn’t even walk yet (a double dose of numbing juice in the spine will do that to you). 

I believe that’s when the madness seeped in. My body and mind were alert in a way I can’t fully explain—for once, they seemed to agree: something was missing. I reached a new level of impatience, primal agitation, and panic because there was no baby beside me, nowhere near me. I put on a good show, focusing on my physical pain instead of my inner turmoil. I felt like I had to keep it together, or they might deem me unfit.

When we—her dad and I—finally got to see her, that feeling still didn’t come. Even as we changed her diaper, dressed her, and held her for skin-to-skin contact, at no point did it hit me that she was mine. I felt distant, and the guilt of that disassociation was overwhelming. How do you apologize to a days-old baby when you can’t seem to bring yourself to care? It was awful. I forced myself to smile and laugh at the right moments because I didn’t know what else to do. It was supposed to be joyous. Instead, I felt ashamed.

What really sucked is that a part of me saw this coming during my pregnancy. My friends tried to reassure me that I’d love my daughter because of the way I loved my goddaughter, but it was hard to feel any affection when pregnancy felt like literal hell on earth. I was diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum, and I thought, “Oh my god, I’m going to die, and the baby’s going to die because I’m just so sick.” At some point, I asked whatever higher power was listening to take us both out of our misery because I couldn’t carry on. I was ready for eternal rest; there was no light at the end of the tunnel. But my pleas fell on deaf ears—thank goodness. Because now, I can’t imagine a world where she’s not with me, burying her head in my neck, hogging my side of the bed, holding onto me. I just can’t.

All that said, there’s always so much going on, and that’s why people shouldn’t be judged for not wanting this life. For those who do, know this: you’re allowed to complain. You’re allowed to want a break. People might think they’re doing something by reminding you that you wanted parenthood, but they’re truly just background noise. Everyone’s experience is different, but one thing remains true: it does get better. Believe me, I’d be doing a disservice if I didn’t give you the full truth about this lifelong journey, responsibility, and commitment.