I don’t think people truly believe me when I say I came back from the depths of hell after having my son.
Birth is often portrayed as pure bliss. The moment a mother holds her baby and instantly falls in love. Life quickly returns to normal. Even in real life, new moms can look like they’ve settled into motherhood with ease.
But what no one talks about is the ugly, incredibly hard side of it.
Not every mom experiences postpartum depression, anxiety, or OCD. For some, it really is bliss. But for many of us, it becomes a fight for survival.
I’ve struggled with my mental health since middle school. By the time I got pregnant in 2023, I was off medication and believed I was in a good place. My pregnancy felt manageable, but the birth was traumatic.
My pregnancy itself felt relatively easy. The birth was anything but.
Between preeclampsia, a forced induction, and my son getting stuck in the birth canal, nothing went according to plan. He was born with IUGR and low amniotic fluid. He struggled to feed and couldn’t regulate his temperature. In his first weeks of life, he had two separate stays in the PICU.
Four days postpartum, I was running back and forth to the hospital, barely sleeping, trying to keep up with a pumping schedule. I never got that peaceful, blissful moment of holding my baby for the first time. Instead, he was taken from my arms because he wasn’t breathing.
Those early days were spent on a hospital couch, watching him, afraid to even step in and care for him. I never got to spend those early days at home resting and bonding with my baby.
I didn’t know if it was my role or the nurses’ to care for him. I felt like I was being watched, like I might do something wrong.
I spent his first month and a half of life constantly going to doctors’ appointments to make sure he was gaining weight.
Breastfeeding didn’t work out either. What’s often described as natural and simple became painful and discouraging. I felt like a failure. I ended up exclusively pumping for 14 months, which took a heavy toll on me.
Everything I had imagined about motherhood unraveled.
I thought I was dealing with the “baby blues,” but something deeper was happening. My need for control took over. I’ve always been routine-oriented, and I tried to force routines onto a life that had none.
The dishes had to be done. The laundry had to be folded. Bottles had to be sanitized constantly. I never let myself rest. I couldn’t sit still, even when I was exhausted. I was stuck in an endless cycle of feeding, pumping, diaper changes, and being nap-trapped with no time for myself.
I hated when visitors left. I couldn’t nap, no matter how tired I was. I hated when the sun went, and nights were my biggest fear. I felt overwhelming guilt anytime I left my son, even briefly, rushing back because he was “my responsibility.”
The intrusive thoughts were constant.
When my husband went back to work after two weeks, I spent entire days crying. I remember thinking I couldn’t do it anymore. I just wanted the pain to stop. I held myself to the standard of a “perfect” mother, while inside, I hated motherhood. When people told me I was a “great mom,” I felt like a fraud.
I was terrified to be honest about what was going on in my mind. I believed if I said the wrong thing, my baby would be taken away, and I’d end up hospitalized. So I stayed silent. At night, I relied on a drink or two just to calm myself down.
Even after a high mental health screening score after birth, I was sent home with no real support. Just a two-week follow-up and a prescription that only partially helped. I was still barely keeping my head above water.
No resources. No support groups. Just a follow-up.
At 12 weeks postpartum, I returned to my job as a middle school history teacher. Life became even harder to manage. Eventually, I made the decision to stay home, but staying home brought a different kind of struggle: isolation.
My son needed multiple therapies because he was behind on milestones. I constantly compared him to other children and felt like I was failing him. I put intense pressure on myself to help him catch up.
I had no mom friends. No one I could confide in about how I was feeling and actually understood how deep I was in postpartum depression.
Starting therapy and seeing a psychiatrist were lifesaving decisions.
For the first time, I understood that what I was experiencing wasn’t just “normal” postpartum struggles; I was deep in postpartum depression. With professional help, I found medication that actually worked for me. I’ve come to accept that I may need medication long-term, and that’s okay.
As difficult as my beginning was, my son saved my life. Loving him and needing to show up for him pushed me to finally seek the help I had needed for years.
Today, I’m in a much better place.
I found the courage to ask another mom at music class for her number. That small step led to a meaningful friendship and eventually a community of women who have changed my life. My son is now two-and-a-half. He is thriving and full of life.
I also faced my relationship with alcohol. Today, I’m a little over one year sober.
I’ve learned to let go of perfection. My house isn’t spotless, and it never will be. There’s dog hair on the floor, laundry waiting to be folded, and a messy kitchen table. And that’s okay.
I’m learning how to be still.
Postpartum mental health struggles don’t always fade after a few months. For me, it took nearly two years to feel like myself again.
By the grace of God, I am still here, stronger, wiser, and more grounded.
I’m sharing this because the silence around postpartum mental health is dangerous. One in seven to one in 10 mothers struggles with postpartum mental health, and that is one too many.
Postpartum care can’t end at a two-week checkup. We need real support, honest conversations, and more grace for mothers in the thick of it.
Healing wasn’t quick or easy. I had to learn that perfection is not the requirement for motherhood. I had to learn that it’s okay to ask for help and to let go of the plan. I can’t go back and relive those early days differently, but I can move forward with awareness, compassion, and growth.
And if you’re in the depths of it right now, please hear this:
The “ugly” parts do not make you a bad mother.
They make you human, and you deserve support.
by Brea Schmidt 
by Maree Reams 
