The sound of my son’s crying followed me everywhere, even in silence. Three months postpartum, in the thick of a global pandemic, I found myself constantly straining to hear if he needed me—in the shower, while cooking, even in those rare moments when he was peacefully asleep and I should have been resting too.
“It’s completely normal to feel overwhelmed,” my mother-in-law said over FaceTime, her pixelated face trying to offer comfort through the screen. “But maybe you could get some help? An overnight nurse?”
I had thought about it, but the anxiety would spiral. What if the nurse had been exposed? What if they brought the virus into our home? What if my tiny, perfect son . . . I couldn’t even finish the thought.
Instead, I spent my nights bouncing on an exercise ball in the dark, my son pressed against my chest, both of us crying. The soft glow of my phone showed 3:47 a.m., then 4:12, then 4:35. Time moved differently in those hours, stretching like taffy between his desperate cries and my whispered prayers that tonight would be the night he would finally sleep.
What no one tells you about postpartum anxiety is how it disguises itself as love. Every fearful thought, every middle-of-the-night Google search, every decision to stay home just to be safe—it all feels like protection. Like the kind of devotion that makes a good mother.
I created elaborate systems: changing clothes immediately after coming inside, sanitizing grocery deliveries, keeping a log of every person who might have walked too close to us during our brief outdoor ventures. My phone’s gallery became a catalog of minor worries—pictures of mysterious rashes that turned out to be nothing, videos of his breathing while he slept, endless questions typed into parenting forums at 3 a.m.
The rage was harder to hide. It would flare up without warning—when my husband mentioned a lunch break at work, or when he slept through a nighttime feeding, or even when he breathed too loudly while trying to help. I knew it wasn’t fair. I knew he was doing his best. But rationality had no place in the dark corners of my mind where postpartum depression had made its home.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment that finally broke through my walls. It was a Tuesday morning, my son finally napping after a particularly rough night, and I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at the cabinet under the sink. I’d been keeping track of every minute he slept, every ounce he drank, every diaper change, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d brushed my teeth.
My phone buzzed with another well-meaning text: Let me know if you need anything! I’d received dozens of these, always answering the same way: We’re doing great! Just being extra careful because of everything.
But were we doing great? With trembling fingers, I typed to my closest friend Olivia: I don’t think I’m okay.
The response was almost immediate: I know. I’ve been worried about you. Can I come over?
Two hours later, I sat six feet from my friend on the front porch, both of us masked, while she listened to everything I couldn’t say for months. The words tumbled out between sobs: how I couldn’t sleep even when the baby did, how I’d started resenting my husband for having a life beyond our four walls, how every cough or sneeze sent me into a panic spiral that could last for days.
That night, I made an appointment with my doctor. Not a virtual visit, but an actual, in-person appointment. As I clicked confirm, I realized I was shaking, but for the first time in months, it wasn’t from fear. It was from hope.
“Do you know how many new moms I’ve seen this month with exactly these feelings?” my doctor asked. “Becoming a mother is hard enough. Becoming a mother during a global pandemic? You’re not failing. You’re surviving in impossible circumstances.”
Recovery wasn’t linear. There were still days when anxiety wrapped around me like a familiar blanket, when depression whispered that I wasn’t doing enough. But slowly, with medication and therapy, I began to find myself again. I learned to distinguish between reasonable caution and paralyzing fear. I started letting my husband take more shifts without spiraling into guilt. I began to trust that loving my son didn’t mean I had to constantly prove it through perfect vigilance.
Now, when I see other new mothers wearing that same look of fierce love and crushing fear, I tell them what I wish someone had told me: that the very fact they’re worried about being good mothers means they already are one. That asking for help isn’t giving up; it’s giving their children the gift of a mother who’s present, not just surviving. Our stories have power, and that’s why I’m telling mine.
by Julie Anne Waterfield 
by Michaela Gasseling 
by Arianna Freelen 
