I’ve been meaning to write about my anxiety for a while, but I’ve never really known how to approach it. Postpartum anxiety isn’t unique to experience, and as someone with a general anxiety disorder, I can tell you they’re worlds apart. It’s not just about being anxious—it’s an entirely different beast when you’ve got a baby in the mix.
Let me be clear: I’m not speaking generally, just for myself. This is my experience, and while it might help someone, it could just as easily be a good read. You never know.
There are so many people who think I’ve got all this on lock. Oh honey, I don’t. All I know is that every day is different. We’re navigating my daughter’s independence as best as we can. Sometimes she wants to be put down and left alone for independent play, and other times she wants to be glued to me all day, rejecting everyone else. I’m also navigating my own independence. Presently, I live for my little family. There have been so many situations I’ve had zero control over that have led me to where I am in every way that counts. But I’m reading again, painting again, all because my anxiety has loosened its grip—just a little—on my mind.
Not everyone has had the chance to be with their babies day in and day out like I have, and I bet that’s another set of fears entirely. Postpartum emotions are a bitch. They really are. You can rationalize all you want, but those fluctuating emotions will hit you hard. We all have our battles and our paths, and wherever you are mentally, just know that as corny as it sounds, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. If you can’t see it yet, you’re just not there yet—but you will be. We’ll be alright. I know the dreaded “you’ll recover after two years” isn’t what anyone wants to hear, but let it serve as a reminder to be kind to yourself, whether you’re a new parent or this isn’t your first rodeo.
After my daughter and I moved into kangaroo care at the hospital, I didn’t think much had changed until I realized I had developed what I can only describe as “spidey senses” specifically for her. It’s like the bond her dad and I share—where we feel each other’s pain or migraines. My sister once jokingly called it a mate bond (if you know, you know). We were just so in tune that I always knew what she needed—well, 99% of the time. Then there’s that 1% where I’m completely blank.
Our first night home was a turning point. I placed her in her cot because weeks of co-sleeping on a cramped hospital bed terrified me. I was so exhausted, yet too scared to sleep for fear of crushing her. I could only sleep when I had a migraine. Before that night, she’d never been a particularly active sleeper—quiet as a mouse, sleeping like a cat through the days. But at home, every sigh, grunt, and movement jolted me awake. Is she cold? Hot? What about SIDS? Is she even breathing? A million thoughts hit me like a freight train. The only way I could rest was when her dad held her.
Looking back, all I remember is the overwhelming exhaustion. The constant, gnawing worry that something terrible might happen consumed me. Aside from intentional skin-to-skin time, I was mostly hands-off as long as she was in my line of sight. Despite this, she still became a Velcro baby, clinging to me. Eventually, she started noticing when I wasn’t holding her, crying out in her tiny, developing voice—a strange screech, like Simba searching for his roar.
Being home was harder than I expected. I had to rely on her dad and later my mom once she arrived. It was a drastic change from it just being us two in the hospital. Contrary to popular belief, there was no real “help” at the hospital, so let’s shut that tired narrative down right now. Being home also meant my anxiety skyrocketed. I found myself worrying about things I had no control over: What if the apartment building collapses? What if someone tries to kidnap her? It was exhausting, and I felt crazy even voicing these thoughts.
When friends came to visit, I was excited for them to meet her, but handing her over filled me with irrational fear. I couldn’t shake the feeling they might just run away with her, so I made sure to stay close at all times. And when I had to sit for exams? That was on a whole other level. Leaving her at home was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My mind conjured up every worst-case scenario imaginable, making it nearly impossible to focus on my paper. It’s honestly a miracle I passed.
Postpartum anxiety can be crippling. It’s not just the endless worrying—it’s the mental exhaustion that comes with constantly being on high alert. It’s frustrating and draining, and no amount of breathwork or grounding exercises seemed to help unless my baby was physically in my arms.
It’s incredibly isolating, and for me, it made everything seem like a potential threat. Whether it was handing my baby to a loved one or stepping outside for a moment, my brain kept me locked in survival mode. No amount of preparation could quiet the intrusive thoughts. But with time, I’ve learned that these feelings don’t define me, nor do they make me a bad parent. Acknowledging them has been the first step toward healing.
Postpartum anxiety, like any form of anxiety, is a thief of peace. But by recognizing it, I’ve been able to reclaim small moments of calm. It doesn’t vanish overnight, but as I grow into this new role of motherhood, I’m learning to be patient with myself and to trust that it’s okay to ask for help. This journey is ongoing, but I’m learning to navigate it one step at a time.
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